(SLES 


MRS.PIATT 


GIFT  OF 
A.    F.   Morrison 


PS  tljt  same  &ntl)or. 

A    WOMAN'S    POEMS. 

i  vol.     i6mo.     $  i. So. 


%*  for  sale  by  Booksellers.     Sent,  post-paid,  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
Publishers, 

JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  BOSTON. 


A    VOYAGE 


TO 


THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES, 


ETC. 


BY 

MRS.   S.   M.   B.   PIATT, 

Author  of  "A  Woman's  Poems." 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY, 

LATE   TICKNOR    &    FIELDS,    AND    FIELDS,    OSGOOD    &    CO. 

1874- 


Entered  according  to  Act  cf  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY  MKS.  S.  M.  B.  PIATT, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

GIFT  OF 


CONTENTS. 


A  VOYAGE  TO  THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES,  i 

There  Was  a  Rose, 14 

Gifts  of  a  Dream, 17 

If  I  Were  a  Queen, 20 

Their  Two  Fortunes, 29 

Sometime,         ..........  32 

The  Dead  Fairies, 36 

The  Order  for  Her  Portrait, 38 

"I  Want  it  Yesterday," 41 

Marble  or  Dust? 43 

Their  Lost  Picture,          ........  46 

Seeing  Through  Tears 48 

To-Morrow,      .......»,.  50 

Sweetness  of  Bitterness, 53 

A  Woman's  Answer, 57 

The  Favorite  Child, 62 

The  Clothes  of  a  Ghost, 64 

Flight, 68 

Beatrice  Cenci,         .         .         .         ..         .         .         .         •  ?i 

Over  in  Kentucky, 74 

An  East-Indian  Fairy  Story, 78 

Baby  or  Bird? 80 

Say  the  Sweet  Words, 82 

(Hi) 


M94690 


IV  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Butterfly's  Message, 83 

Leaving  Love, 87 

The  Black  Princess, 90 

One  Poet's  Silence, 94 

Her  Simile, 96 

A  Prettier  Book, 97 

A  Precious  Seeing, 101 

The  Funeral  of  a  Doll, 104 

A  Parting  Gift  of  Youth, 108 

Crying  for  the  Moon, 1 12 

Aunt  Annie, 114 

The  Palace-Burner, 119 

Love-Stories,     .         . 123 

His  Fairy  Godmother, 128 

Why  Should  We  Care? 132 

At  the  Play, 136 

"I  Wish  that  I  Could  Go," 139 

A  Life  in  a  Mirror, 145 

When  the  Full  Moon's  Light  is  Burning,      ....  148 

Our  Old  and  New  Landlords, 149 

A  Doubt, 154 

This  World,     . 157 

The  Flight  of  the  Children, 162 

A  Masked  Ball, 165 

A  Woman's  Birthday, 170 

His  Share  and  Mine, 173 

Life  or  Love,   . 176 

1 80 


A   VOYAGE  TO  THE   FORTUNATE   ISLES, 

ETC. 


A  VOYAGE   TO   THE    FORTUNATE   ISLES. 

THE    FABLE    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

"  V7ES,  but  I  fear  to  leave  the  shore. 
So  fierce,  so  shadowy,  so  cold, 
Deserts  of  water  lie  before — 

Whose  secrets  night  has  never  told, 
Save  in  close  whispers  to  the  dead. 
I  fear,"  one  vaguely  said. 


One  answered:  "Will  you  waver  here? 
As  wild  and  lonesome  as  the  things 


FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

Which  hold  their  wet  nests,  year  by  year, 

In  these  poor  rocks,  are  we.     Their  wings 
Grow  restless — wherefore  not  our  feet? 
That  which  is  strange  is  sweet." 

"  That  which  we  know  is  sweeter  yet. 

Do  we  not  love  the  near  Earth  more 
Than  the  far  Heaven  ?  Does  not  Regret 

Walk  with  us,  always,  from  the  door 
That  shuts  behind  us,  though  we  leave 


Not  much  to  make  us  grieve  ?" 


"  Why  fret  me  longer,  when  you  know 
Our  hands  with  thorny  toil  are  torn  ? 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

Scant  bread  and  bitter,  heat  and  snow, 

Rude  garments,  souls  too  blind  and  worn 
To  climb  to  Christ  for  comfort:  these 
Are  here.     And  there — the  Seas. 

"  True,  our  great  Lord  will  let  us  drink 
At  some  wild  springs,  and  even  take 
A  few  slight  dew-flowers.     But,  I  think, 

He  cares  not  how  our  hearts  may  ache. 
He  comes  not  to  the  peasant's  hut 
To  learn — the  door  is  shut. 

"  Oh,  He  is  an  hard  Master.     Still 

In  His  rough  fields,  for  piteous  hire, 


A   VOYAGE   TO   THE   FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

To  break  dry  clods  is  not  my  will. 

I  thank  Him  that  my  arms  can  tire. 
Let  thistles  henceforth  grow  like  grain, 
To  mock  His  sun  and  rain. 


"  Others  He  lifts  to  high  estate — 

Others,  no  peers  of  yours  or  mine. 
He  folds  them  in  a  silken  fate, 

Casts  pearls  before  them — oh,  the  swine ! 
Drugs  them  with  wine,  veils  them  with  lace  ; 
And  gives  us  this  mean  place." 

"Well.     May  there  not  be  butterflies 
That  lift  with  weary  wings  the  air ; 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

That  loathe  the  foreign  sun,  which  lies 

On  all  their  colors  like  despair ; 
That  glitter,  home-sick  for  the  form 
And  lost  sleep  of  the  worm  ?" 

"  Hush — see  the  ship.     It  comes  at  last," 

She  whispered,  through  forlornest  smiles : 
"  How  brave  it  is !     It  sails  so  fast. 

It  takes  us  to  the  Fortunate  Isles. 
Come."     Then  the  heart's  great  silence  drew 
Like  Death  around  the  Two. 


Death-like  it  was — through  pain  and  doubt, 
To  leave  their  world  at  once  and  go, 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

Pale,  mute,  and  even  unconscious,  out 

Through  dimness  toward  some  distant  Glow, 
That  might  be  but  Illusion  caught 


In  the  fine  net  of  Thought. 


As  ghosts,  led  by  a  ghostly  sleep — 

Followed  by  Life,  a  breathless  dream — 

Out  in  eternal  dusk  that  keep 

Their  way  somewhere,  these  Two  did  seem, 

Till  the  sea-moon  climbed  to  her  place 
And  looked  in  each  still  face. 

"The  worm,"  she  waking  said,  "must  long 
To  put  on  beauty  and  to  fly, 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

But" coming  toward  them  sad  and  strong, 

There  was  a  little  double  cry. 
"  What  hurts  the  children  ?     They  should  rest, 
In  such  a  floating  nest." 

"  Oh,  Mother,  look— we  all  are  gone. 

Our  house  is  swimming  in  the  sea. 
It  will  not  stop.     It  keeps  right  on. 

How  far  away  we  all  must  be ! 
The  wind  has  blown  it  from  the  cliff. 
It  rocks  us  like  a  skiff. 


"  We  all  will  drown  but  Baby.     He 
Is  in  his  pretty  grave  so  far. 


8  A    VOYAGE   TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

He  has  to  sleep  till  Judgment.     We 

Must  sink  where  all  the  sailors  are, 
Who  used  to  die,  when  storms  would  come, 
Away  off  from  their  home." 

"  Lie  still,  you  foolish  yellow  heads. 

This  is  a  ship.     We're  sailing."     "Where?" 
"  Go  nestle  in  your  little  beds. 

Be  quiet.     We  shall  soon  be  there." 
"  Where  ?  "     "  Why,  it  is  not  many  miles." 

"Where?"     "To  the  Fortunate  Isles." 


"  Home  is  the  best.     Oh,  what  a  light ! 
God  must  be  looking  in  the  sea. 


A    VOYAGE   TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

It  is  His  glass.     He  makes  it  bright 
All  over  with  His  face.     And  He 
Is  angry.     Pie  is  talking  loud 
Out  of  that  broken  cloud. 


"  The  men  all  hear  Him,  in  the  ropes : 

He  's  telling  them  the  ship  must  go. 
They'd  better  climb  to  Him."     Pale  Hopes 

Looked  from  each  wretched  breast,  to  know 
If  somewhere,  through  the  shattered  night, 
One  sail  could  be  in  sight. 

And  Two,  who  waited,  dying  slow, 

Said,  clinging  to  their  desperate  calm : 


IO  A   VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

"  We  had  not  thought  such  wind  could  blow 

Out  of  the  warm  leaves  of  the  palm. 
Strange,  with  the  Fortunate  Isles  so  nigh — 
Strange,  cruel,  thus  to  die." 

"  The  Fortunate  Isles  ?"  one  other  cried  ; 
"  You  knew  we  were  not  sailing  there  ? 
They  lie  far  back  across  the  tide. 

Their  cliffs  are  gray  and  wet  and  bare ; 
And  quiet  people  in  their  soil 
Are  still  content  to  toil. 

"Toward  shining  snakes,  toward  fair  dumb  birds, 
Toward  Fever  hiding  in  the  spice, 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES.  II 

We  voyaged."     But  his  tropic  words 

Dropped  icy  upon  hearts  of  ice. 
The  lonesome  gulf  to  which  they  passed 
Had  shown  the  Truth  at  last. 


That  wavering  glare,  the  drowning  see 
With  phantoms  of  their  life  therein, 

Flashed  on  them  both.     Yet  mostly  she 
Felt  all  her  sorrow,  all  her  sin, 

And  learned,  most  bitterly,  how  dear 
Their  crags  and  valleys  were. 

Their  home,  whose  dim  wet  windows  stared 

Through  drops  of  brine,  like  eyes  through  tears  ; 


12  A    VOYAGE   TO  THE   FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

The  blue  ground-blossoms  that  had  cared 

To  creep  about  their  feet  for  years  ; 
And  their  one  grave  so  deep,  so  small — 
Sinking,  they  saw  them  all ! 

To  leave  the  Fortunate  Isles,  away 

On  the  other  side  of  the  world,  and  sail 

Still  farther  from  them,  day  by  day, 
Dreaming  to  find  them  ;  and  to  fail 

In  knowing,  till  the  very  last, 

They  held  one's  own  sweet  Past : 

Such  lot  was  theirs.     Such  lot  will  be, 
Ah,  much  I  fear  me,  yours  and  mine. 


A    VOYAGE    TO    THE    FORTUNATE    ISLES. 

Because  our  air  is  cold,  and  we 

See  Summer  in  some  mirage  shine, 
We  leave  the  Fortunate  Isles  behind, 
The  Fortunate  Isles  to  find. 


THERE   WAS   A   ROSE. 


""INHERE  was  a   rose,"  she  said, 

"  Like  other  roses,  perhaps,  to  you. 

Nine  years  ago  it  was  faint  and  red, 
Away  in  the  cold  dark  dew, 
On  the  dwarf  bush  where  it  grew. 

Never  any  rose  before 

Was  like  that  rose,  very  well  I  know  ; 

(H) 


THERE   WAS    A    ROSE.  15 

Never  another  rose  any  more 
Will  blow  as  that    rose  did  blow, 
When  the  wet  wind  shook  it  so. 

"'What  do  I  want?'— Ah,  what? 

Why,  I  want  that  rose,  that  wee  one  rose, 
Only  that  rose.     And  that  rose  is  not 
Anywhere  just  now?    .    .    .    God  knows 
Where  all  the  old  sweetness  goes. 

"  I  want  that  rose  so  much  ; 

I  would  take  the  world  back  there  to  the  night 
Where  I  saw  it  blush  in  the  grass,  to  touch 
It  once  in  that  fair  fall  light, 
And  only  once,  if  I  might. 


1 6  THERE    WAS    A    ROSE. 

"  But  a  million  marching  men 

From  the  North  and  the  South  would  arise? 
And  the  dead — would  have  to  die  again  ? 
And  the  women's  widowed  cries 
Would  trouble  anew  the  skies  ? 

"  No  matter.     I  would  not  care  ; 

Were  it  not  better  that  this  should  be  ? 
The  sorrow  of  many  the  many  bear, — 
Mine  is  too  heavy  for  me. 
And  I  want  that  rose,  you  see ! " 


GIFTS    OF   A   DREAM. 

whispered  through  my  sleep : 
"  I  bring  a  statue  here  with  me, 
Worth  half  the  world.    No  queen  has  one  to  keep, 
So  precious.     WTake  and  see. 

"  I  also  bring  a  vine, 

To  plant  by  cottage  windows — one 
Whose  brood  of  blossoms  may  be  fair  and  fine 
As  ever  pleased  the  sun. 


1 8  GIFTS    OF    A    DREAM. 

"  HE  sent  them,  Dear,  to  you 

Who  loves  you  with  a  love  divine. 
Arise  and  look,  and  choose  one  of  the  two, 
Or  let  the  choice  be  mine." 


I  reached  my  eager  arm 

To  catch  the  marble :  heard  a  moan, 
And  knew  my  heavy  hand  had  crushed  the  charm, 

And  left — some  dead  white  stone ! 


He  murmured,  with  a  kiss, 

"Poor  child,"  and  laughed  the  lightest  laugh, 
"  The  statue  was  worth  half  the  world,  but  this 
Is  worth  the  other  half." 


GIFTS    OF   A   DREAM.  ig 

And  left  the  rose  in  dew. 

Now,  gathering  buds,  and  bright  with  bees, 
It  fills  my  life  with  honey.     Dreams  come  true — 

Such  lovely  dreams  as  these. 


IF   I   WERE   A    QUEEN. 

"  T)UT  if  you  were  a  Queen  ?"  you  said. 
Well,  then  I  think  my  favorite  page 
Should  have  a  yellow,  restless  head, 
And  be  just  your  own  pretty  age. 
So  sweet  in  violet  velvet,  he 

Should  tend  my  butterflies  in  herds, 
Or  help  that  belted  knight,  the  bee, 

Win  honey,  or  make  little  birds 
Some  little  songs  to  sing  for  me— 

If  I  were  a  Queen. 

(20) 


IF    I    WERE   A    QUEEN.  21 

A  Queen — you  saw  one  sitting  by 

A  tall  man  in  a  picture  ?     Well. 
He  had  a  harp  ?     You  need  not  try- 

Her  name  is  one  you  can  not  tell. 
And  so  you  wonder  if  I  could 

Be  Isolt,  then  ?     Not  she,  I  fear, 
To  save  Sir  Tristram  of  the  Wood 

And  all  his  tripping  silver  deer ; 
For  it  were  better  to  be  good, 

If  I  were  a  Queen. 

Nor  Guinevere You  ask,  would  I 

Be  Queen  Elizabeth  ?     Oh  !  no  ; 

For,  then,  should  I  not  have  to  die 
And  leave,  all  hanging  in  a  row, 


IF    I    WERE    A    QUEEN. 

Two  thousand  dresses  ?     Could  I  bear 
To  sit,  majestic,  cross,  and  gray, 

With  red  paint  on  my  nose,  or  wear, 
Down  in  my  grave  till  Judgment  Day, 

The  ring  of  Essex  burning  there, 

If  I  were  a  Queen  ? 

Now  let  me  ask  myself  awhile. 

Mary  of  Scotland,  then  ? — since  she 
Haunts  her  gray  castle  with  a  smile 

That  one  man  may  have  died  to  see  : 
She,  fairest  in  Romance's  light ; 

She,  saddest-storied  of  them  all ; 
She — but  it  would  not  please  me  quite 

To  climb  a  scaffold,  or  to  fall 


IF    I    WERE    A    QUEEN.  23 

Beside  my  lovely  head  to-night, 

If  I  were  a  Queen. 

Then  she  of  Egypt— with  the  asp 

To  drain  my  deadly  beauty  dry  ?— 
To  see  my  Roman  lover  clasp 

His  sword  with  surer  love,  and  die 
Closer  to  it  than  me  ?     Not  so. 

No  desert-snake  with  nursing  grace 
Should  draw  my  fierce  heart's  fiercest  glow ; 

No  coward  of  my  conqueror's  race 
Should  offer  me  his  blood,  I  know— 

If  I  were  a  Queen. 

Boiidice'a?     I  were  afraid 

To  see  her  scythed  chariots  shine ! 


24  IF    I    WERE    A    QUEEN. 

Nor  Vashti ;  for  she  disobeyed 

Her  lord,  the  king  in  kingly  wine ! 

Then  she,  the  Queen  of  the  East,  who  found 
The  Wisest  not  so  well  arrayed, 

In  all  his  glory,  as  the  ground 
Arrays  its  lilies? — Would  I  fade 

Into  some  shrunken  Bible  mound, 

If  I  were  a  Queen  ? 

Semiramis  ?     Were  it  not  sweet 
To  have  a  palace  mirror  show  * 

How  mad  Assyria  at  my  feet 

Might  lie  down  like  a  lamb  ?     And,  oh ! 

To  stand  defiant,  in  the  glare 
Of  rising  war,  and  softly  say : 

*  Allusion  to  a  celebrated  painting  of  Semiramis. 


IF    I    WERE   A    QUEEN.  2  5 

"  My  Beauty  will  subdue  them  ! "     Rare 

And  royal  bloom  must  drop  away  ; 
Nor  would  I  as  a  ghost  look  fair, 

If  I  were  a  Queen. 

Penelope"?     No,  on  my  word: 

Vexed  grievously  with  suitors,  while 
Much-wandering  Ulysses  heard 

Fine  singing  at  the  syrens'  isle, 
Too  small  were  Ithaca  for  me  ! 

Then  she  whose  gold  hair  glitters  high 
With  stars  caught  in  its  tangles?* — See, 

How  beautiful  it  is !     But  I 
Should  choose  my  hair  on  Earth  to  be, 
If  I  were  a  Queen  ! 

*  Berenice's  Hair. 


26  IF    I    WERE   A    QUEEN. 

Nor  slight,  blonde  Marie  Antoinette  ? 

Nor  she  the  Austrians  called  their  King  ? 
Nor  any  Blanche,  or  Margaret  ? 

Nor  Russia's  Catharine  ?     Would  I  bring 
The  Spanish  woman's  loath  heart,  then, 

From  Aragon  to  England's  throne  ? 
Or  be  the  Italian,  widowed,  when 

She,  in  a  garret  at  Cologne, 
Starved,  a  gray  exile,  shunned  of  men, 
If  I  were  a  Queen  ? 

What  Queen  ?     Titania — since  it  seems 
A  woman  never  quite  can  tire 

Of  kissing  long,  fair  ears  !     In  dreams 
My  Gentle  Joy  I  will  admire, 


IF    I    WERE   A    QUEEN.  2? 

And — but  there  is  no  Fairyland 

Left  in  the  crowded  world,  no  room 
For  dew,  for  any  thing  but  sand. 

Put  out  the  moonshine,  fold  the  bloom. 

• 

My  feet  could  find  no  space  to  stand, 
If  I  were  a  Queen. 

Ah  !  still  I  ask  myself  what  Queen  ? 

Well,  one  whose  days  were  almost  done, 
Who  felt  her  grave-grass  turning  green, 

Who  saw  the  low  light  of  the  sun 
Shrink  from  her  palace  windows,  while 

Her  whole  court  watched  beside  her  bed, 
Ready  to  say,  without  a  smile : 
"  We  loved  the  Queen.    The  Queen  is  dead." 


28  IF    I    WERE    A    QUEEN. 

Then  they  should  grieve  a  little  while, 
If  I  were  a  Queen. 

And  my  whole  court,  I  think,  should  show 

• 

Three  little  heads  of  lightest  gold, 
Two  others  of  a  darker  glow  ; 

And  One  bent  low  enough  to  hold 
Between  pale,  quivering  hands.     And  then 

Some  Silence  should  receive  my  soul, 
My  name  should  fade  from  lips  of  men, 

My  pleasant  funeral-bells  should  toll 
This  hour,  and  dust  be  dust  again — 
If  I  were  a  Queen. 


THEIR   TWO    FORTUNES. 

[A nine,  after  calling  on  Charlotte.] 

"  A   S  I  passed  her  window  she  smiled  at  me, 

Through  the  lovely  mist  of  her  laces, 
And  asked  if  I  would  go  in  and  see 
Those  exquisite  foreign  vases. 


"Then  the  mirrors  here,  or  the  bronzes  there, 

Or  some  statue's  cold  completeness, 
Or  the  flowers  that  followed  her  through  the  air, 

With  their  souls  expressed  in  sweetness. 

(29) 


30  THEIR   TWO    FORTUNES. 

"  From  the  carpets,  full  of  their  Eastern  blooms, 

That  were  hiding  her  steps  so  lightly, 
I  passed  to  the  love  in  my  faded  rooms, 
And  my  heart  kept  aching — slightly. 


"  If  her  life  is  dry,  then  its  torrid  sands 

Must  have  pained  my  eyes  with  their  glitter, 
For  I  know  that  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands — 
And  I  fear  that  my  tears  were  bitter. 


"  Ah,  you  pity  her — because  she  is  fair ; 

And  because — she  wears  rich  dresses  ; 
And  because  her  lord  has — not  dark  hair ; 
And  because  of — certain  guesses. 


THEIR    TWO    FORTUNES. 


"  But  I  tell  you,  sir,  with  your  author's  look, 

When  the  point  of  your  pen  grows  tender 
There  are  things  as  sad  to  put  in  your  book 
As  my  lady's  loveless  splendor." 


SOMETIME. 

"\  T  7ELL,  either  you  or  I, 

After  whatever  is  to  say  is  said, 
Must  see  the  other  die, 

Or  hear,  through  distance,  of  the  other  dead, 

Sometime. 

3.      -  -  \ 

And  you  or  I  must  hide 

Poor  empty  eyes  and  faces,  wan  and  wet 
With  Life's  great  grief,  beside 

The  other's  coffin,  sealed  with  silence,  yet, 

Sometime. 
(32) 


SOMETIME.  33 

And  you  or  I  must  look 

Into  the  other's  grave,  or  far  or  near, 
And  read,  as  in  a  book 

Writ  in  the  dust,  words  we  made  bitter  here, 

Sometime. 


Then,  through  what  paths  of  dew, 

What  flush  of  flowers,  what  glory  in  the  grass, 
Only  one  of  us  two, 

Even  as  a  shadow  walking,  blind  may  pass, 

Sometime ! 


And,  if  the  nestling  song 

Break  from  the  bosom  of  the  bird  for  love, 


34  SOMETIME. 

No  more  to  listen  long 

One  shall  be  deaf  below,  one  deaf  above, 

Sometime. 

For  both  must  lose  the  way 

Wherein  we  walk  together,  very  soon  : 
One  in  the  dusk  shall  stay, 

The  other  first  shall  see  the  rising  moon, 

Sometime. 

Oh  !  fast,  fast  friend  of  mine  ! 

Lift  up  the  voice  I  love  so  much,  and  warn  ; 
To  wring  faint  hands  and  pine, 

Tell  me  I  may  be  left  forlorn,  forlorn, 

Sometime. 


SOMETIME.  35 

Say  I  may  kiss  through  tears, 

Forever  falling  and  forever  cold, 
One  ribbon  from  sweet  years, 

One  dear  dead  leaf,  one  precious  ring  of  gold, 

Sometime. 

Say  you  may  think  with  pain 

Of  some  slight  grace,  some  timid  wish  to  please, 
Some  eager  look  half  vain 

Into  your  heart,  some  broken  sobs  like  these, 

Sometime ! 


THE   DEAD    FAIRIES. 

3  the  Fairies  ever  die  ? " 
Why,  yes,  they  are  always  dying. 
There  in  the  freezing  dark,  close  by, 
A  thousand,  dead,  are  lying. 

Of  the  time  they  made  so  fair 

But  the  fading  shadow  lingers — 
Oh,  how  the  light  gold  of  my  hair 

Curled  on  their  airy  fingers ! 
(36) 


THE    DEAD    FAIRIES.  37 

I  shall  not  see  them  again  : 

They  fell  in  the  sun's  fierce  brightening; 
They  were  drowned  in  drops  of—          "Rain?" 

They  were  scorched  to  death  with  lightning. 


With  bloom,  as  the  bee-songs  pass, 
Our  sweet-briar  keeps  its  promise ; 

The  fireflies  burn  in  the  grass  ; 

Winds  blow  our  butterflies  from  us. 

Yet,  under  that  thin  gray  tree 

With  the  moonrise  in  its  stillness, 

They  keep  hidden  away  from  me, 
Forever,  in  dusty  chillness. 


THE  ORDER  FOR  HER  PORTRAIT. 

"  T   SAY  what  Cromwell  said, 

(Smile',  gray-haired  skeptic,  -if  you  think  me 

bold,) 

And  that  Italian  count  whose  hair  was  red — 
His  great  will  would  not  have  it  painted  gold. 

"  Look  at  me,  if  you  will ; 

Say  youth  is  gone,  or  youth  was  never  mine. 
I  change  not  with  the  seasons.     Cold  and  still, 

I  wait  before  you — careless  and  divine. 

(38) 


THE  ORDER  FOR  HER  PORTRAIT.         39 

"  Youth  ?     Can  the  rose  outstay 

The  bud  of  the   rose  ?     And   could    the   round 

moon  shine 

Without  the  crescent  somewhere  ?    Who  shall  say 
How   far  youth   reaches  ?     Not    such    voice    is 
mine. 

"  No,  I  am  brave,  not  vain ; 

Braver  than  he  of  Macedon,  since  I 
For  Vanity's  light  sake  would  hardly  stain 
Art  and  the  awful  future  with  a  lie  : 

"  You  know  that  hand  whose  pride 

Within  its  hollow  held  one  world,  afar 

Reaching  for  others,  raised  itself  to  hide 

On  pictured  brows  the  glory  of  a  scar. 


4O        THE  ORDER  FOR  HER  PORTRAIT. 

"But  paint  me  as  I  am, 

Whatever  shape  or  color  you  may  see ; 
And  do  not  fold  the  white  fleece  of  the  lamb 
About  the  yellow  lioness,  for  me. 

"Aye,  as  I  am.     And  then, 

No  matter  what  you  on  your  canvas  find, 
It  shall  not  shrink  before  the  eyes  of  men  ; 
It  shall  be  Truth — unless  your  soul  is  blind  ! " 


I   WANT   IT   YESTERDAY." 


,  take  the  flower,  —  it  is  not  dead, 
It  stayed  all  night  out  in  the  dew." 
I  will  not  have  it  now,"  he  said; 
"  I  want  it  yesterday,  I  do." 


"  It  is  as  red,  it  is  as  sweet" 

With  angry  tears  he  turned  away, 

Then  flung  it  fiercely  at  his  feet, 
And  said,    "I  want  it  —  yesterday." 


(40 


42  "I    WANT    IT    YESTERDAY." 

As  sullen  and  as  quick  of  grief, 

Sometimes  a  lovelier  flower  than  this 

I  crush  forever,  scent  and  leaf; 
Then  scent  and  leaf  forever  miss. 


It  keeps  its  blush,  it  keeps  its  breath, 
It  keeps  its  form  unchanged,  but  I 

See  in  its  beauty  only  death ; 

Then  drop  it  in  the  dust,  —  and  why? 


And  why?    Ah,  Hand  divine,  I  know, — 
Forgive  my  childish  pain,  I  pray,  — 

To-day  your  flower  is  fair,  but  oh  ! 
I  only  want  it  —  yesterday! 


MARBLE   OR    DUST? 

A     CHILD,  beside  a  statue,  said  to  me, 

With  pretty  wisdom  very  sadly  just, 
"That  man  is  Mr.  Lincoln,  mamma.     He 
Was  made  of  marble  ;  we  are  made  of  dust." 


One  flash  of  passionate  sorrow  trembled  through 

The  dust  of  which  I  had  been  dimly  made, 
One  fierce,  quick  wish  to  be  of  marble  too — 

Not  something  meaner,  that  must  fall  and  fade. 

(43) 


44  MARBLE    OR    DUST  ? 

"To  be  forever  fair  and  still  and  cold," 

I  faintly  thought,  with  faint  tears  in  my  sight ; 

"  To  stand  thus  face  to  face  with  Time,  and  hold 
Between  us  that  uncrumbling  charm  of  white ; 

"  To  see  the  creatures  formed  of  slighter  stuff 
Waver  in  little  dead-leaf  whirls  away, 

Yet  know  that  I  could  wait  and  have  enough 
Of  frost  and  dew,  enough  of  dark  and  day. 

" I  would  be  marble  ?     Wherefore  ?     Just  to 


miss 


The  tremors  of  glad  pain  that  dust  must  know? — 
The  grief  that  settles  after  some  dead  kiss  ? — 
The  frown  that  was  a  smile  not  long  ago  ? 


MARBLE    OR    DUST  ?  45 

"  Do  I  forget  the  stone's  long  loneliness  ?— 

The  dumb  impatience  all  wan  watching  brings  ?— 

The  looking  with  blind  eyes,  in  vague  distress, 
For  Christ's  slow  Coming  and  the  End  of  Things  ? 

"No,  boy  of  mine,  with  your  young  yellow  hair, 
Better  the  dust  you  scatter  with  your  feet 

Than  marble,  which  can  see  not  you  are  fair — • 
Than  marble,  which  can  feel  not  you  are  sweet. 

"  Ay,  or  than  marble  which  must  meet  the  years 
Without  my  light  relief  of  murmurous  breath  ; 

Without  the  bitter  sweetness  of  my  tears— 

Without  the  love  which  dust  must  have  for  Death." 


THEIR    LOST    PICTURE. 


"  1\I  ^'  it:  WaS  nothing  old  and  grand  : 

Only  a  child,  out  in  the  sun, 
Choking  a  kitten  with  one  hand, 

And  crushing  pretty  flowers  with  one. 


"  Some  rose-buds,  sweet  as  buds  could  be, 
Were  blown  against  the  blowing  hair ; 
The  clear  eyes  watched  a  cedar-tree, 

That  held  a  red-bird  flaming  there. 
(46) 


THEIR    LOST    PICTURE.  47 

"  The  frame  around  was  dark  and  small. 

JusJ  opposite  the  open  door, 
One  morning,  on  our  cottage  wall 

It  hung,  when  we  were  young  and  poor. 


"  This  little  piece  of  light  and  bloom 

Was  more,  a  thousand  times,  to  me 
Than  all  you  have  seen  in  great  church-gloom, 
Or  palace-gallery  light,  could  be. 

" You  do  not  understand,  I  say. 

We  saw  the  picture  in  the  glass, 
In  our  first  home  so  far  away, 

When  our  dead  child  played  in  the  grass." 


SEEING   THROUGH    TEARS. 

A   H  me !  look  not  too  fair ! 

If  Love  could  be  a  fairy  story,  ending 
At  our  two  graves  out  in  the  dark  somewhere- 
If,  dying,  I  could  know  myself  descending 
Forever  from  myself,  no  cry 
For  wings  would  smite  the  sky ; 


No  high  reproach  and  fond 

That  souls  and  angels  were  frail  human  fancies, 

(48) 


SEEING    THROUGH    TEARS. 


49 


That  nothing,  sweet  or  bitter,  was  beyond 

The  Bible  saints  and  their  divine  romances : — 
All  I  could  feel  were  this,  I  fear — 
That  dust  to  dust  is  dear ! 


TO-MORROW. 

TV^EEP  lovely  in  that  painted  scene, 

There  where  false  water  quivers  bright, 
There  where  false-fruited  trees  are  green, 

Far  from  the  sharp  Dawn's  dreary  light, 

Our  dear  Illusion  of  To-night ! 


Only  with  lamps  between  we  meet, 
With  silence  in  your  steps  you  stay  : 

A  Player,  seeming  young  and  sweet, 

(50) 


TO-MORROW.  5  l 

That  have  to  play  a  bitter  play- 
Near,  yet  forever  far  away. 

You,  in  your  borrowed  hair's  fair  gloom; 
You,  in  your  mask  of  white  and  red  ; 

You,  in  mock  jewels — bud  and  bloom, 
Torn  from  To-day,  with  odors  dead, 
Will  stain  the  shining  stage  you  tread ! 


We  tremble  as  we  feel  you  start, 
So  dimly  glittering  toward  our  eyes, 

For  this  dark  drama,  this  fierce  part, 
Where  coffins,  blood,  and  tearful  cries 
Must  pass  you  in  your  pageantries. 


52  TO-MORROW. 

Ah !  lovely  in  that  painted  scene, 

There  where  false  water  quivers  bright, 

There  where  false-fruited  trees  are  green, 
Far  from  the  sharp  Dawn's  dreary  light, 
Stay,  dear  Illusion  of  To-night ! 


SWEETNESS  OF  BITTERNESS. 


T    WONDER,  if  my  hair  were  gray, 
It  would  not  then  be  sweet  to  see 

Some  other  head  in  gold,  and  say, 
Shaking  my  own  :  "Ah  me!  ah  me! 
How  very  pleasant  it  must  be 
To  have  such  lovely  hair  as  she!" 

I  wonder,  if  my  days  were  shut, 
Empty  and  dim  and  slow  with  care, 

In  some  poor  peasant's  prison-hut, 
It  would  not  then  be  sweet  to  stare, 
With  the  fierce  boldness  of  despair, 


Into  some  shining  window,  where 


(53) 


54  SWEETNESS    OF    BITTERNESS. 

Each  foreign  flower,  through  lifted  lace, 
Its  passionate,  homesick  yearning  shows, 

On  pictures  warm  with  Southern  grace 
Or  cold  with  Northern  birds  and  snows, 
And  say  :  "  How  fair  a  fate  have  those 
Within  whose  world  such  beauty  glows." 

I  wonder,  if  the  broken  breath 

Of  one  wet  brier-rose  held  to-night 

A  little  memory  dear  with  death, 
It  were  not  sweet  to  have  the  light 
Show  laughing  mothers  full  in  sight 
Kiss  dimpled  things  in  baby-white. 

I  wonder,  were  I  left  alone, 

With  asp  and  sun  and  sand,  some  day, 
And  circled  with  a  fiery  zone, 


SWEETNESS    OF    BITTERNESS.  55 

'T  would  not  be  sweet  to  look  away 
Toward  lands  where  moonlit  fountains  play 
And  toss  to  other  lips  their  spray. 

I  wonder,  were  it  mine  to  kiss 

A  nun's  black  cross  through  tears,  and  wear 
Her  blinding  veil,  and  miss  and  miss 

The  world's  one  charm,  if  even  there, 

High  up  in  still  and  sacred  air, 

Where  thought  itself  is  only  prayer, 

It  would  not  then* be  sweet  to  make 

(And  like  a  mateless  bird  to  pine) 
My  wan  and  weary  fingers  ache 

With  tracing  some  light  leaf  or  vine 

In  bridal  drapery,  faint  and  fine— 

Because  it  never  could  be  mine  ! 


56  SWEETNESS  OF  BITTERNESS. 

I  wonder,  is  there  any  thing 
In  hidden  honey  half  so  sweet 

As — something  in  the  bee's  wild  sting ; 
If  buried  wine,  found  at  the  feet 
Of  some  young  king,  were  so  complete 
As  thirst  within  his  fever's  heat. 


A    WOMAN'S   ANSWER. 

[^//^r  Many  Years.] 

r  I  ^HE  king  a  story  is  to-day — 

You  know  the  story  vague  and  splendid? 
His  name  is  withered,  dim,  and  gray ; 
His  deeds  are  ruins  in  the  play 
Of  ghostly  lightning,  sometime  seen 
On  lonesome  heights,  where,  fair  and  green, 
The  dewy  legend  clings  around; 

Yet,  by  his  Paladins  attended, 

(57) 


58  A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

Through  Romance  once  his  horn  was  wound, 
And  listening  lands  shook  with  the  sound. 

In  this  brief  world  a  little  time 
To  be  a  king  this  king  was  fated ; 

But  how  imperial  and  sublime 

His  after-palace  was  !     No  rhyme 

Can  hold  its  quiet  or  its  gloom  : 

Three  hundred  years  within  a  tomb, 

Before  his  awful  reign  was  done, 

Three  hundred  years  and  more  he  waited, 

Fixed  on  his  marble  throne,  where  none 


Could  bring  him  news  of  star  or  sun. 


He  sat,  a  skeleton,  beside 

The  glare  of  gold  ;  and  many  a  jewel 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER.  59 

Blazed  fiercely  from  its  shrine  to  hide 
The  nothingness  of  death  with  pride. 
Crown,  sword,  and  scepter  world-adored, 
Dead  crown,  dead  scepter,  and  dead  sword 
Upheld  thus  by  a  dead  right  arm, 
The  glory  of  the  grave  is  cruel ! 
His  regal  mantle  was  not  warm, 
Nor  did  his  queen's  ring  keep  its  charm. 

Oh,  after  that  last  battle,  peace 

To  him  and  all  his  heroes,  shining 
So  long  in  lovely  raiment.  .  .  .  Cease, 
Poor,  murmurous  heart  of  mine !  .  .  .  His  lease 
Of  royal  centuries  slowly  fled — 
A  living  king  dethroned  the  dead, 


60  A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 

Spite  of  the  True  Cross  on  his  breast, 

With  faith  for  ages  round  it  twining : 
For  God  at  last  said  it  was  best 
To  give  the  patient  emperor  rest. 

My  king,  you  reigned  in  flowering  air, 

In  my  light  life,  not  long.     My  fancies, 
Your  Paladins,  were  brave  and  fair, 
And  followed  you  with  loyal  care 
To — Font  Arabia  ?     And,  at  last, 
Fallen  and  scarred  and  worn,  they  passed 
Into  some  shadow,  where  they  lie 

With  red  stains  on  their  weary  lances ; 
And  some  slow  death  that  can  not  die 
Broods  low  between  them. and  the  sky. 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER.  61 

Three  hundred  years  and  more  to  me, 

You,  like  the  medieval  giant, 
In  fixed  and  fearful  majesty 
Down  in  a  sepulcher  could  be, 
And  glitter  with  a  ghostly  state ; 
But  some  strange  king  came,  slow  and  late, 
To  lift  your  throne  above  the  ground, 

And  sit  thereon  with  bloom  defiant — 
Spite  of  the  True  Cross  with  you  found — 
After  his  shining  head  was  crowned. 


THE   FAVORITE    CHILD. 

\T7HICH  of  five  snowdrops' would  the  moon 
Think  whitest,  if  the  moon  could  see  ? 

Which  of  five  rosebuds  flushed  with  June 
Were  reddest  to  the  mother-tree? 

Which  of  five  birds,  that  play  one  tune 
On  their  soft-shining  throats,  may  be 
Chief  singer  ?  Who  will  answer  me  ? 

Would  not  the  moon  know,  if  around 
One  snowdrop  any  shadow  lay  ? — 


THE    FAVORITE    CHILD.  63 

Would  not  the  rose-tree,  if  the  ground 
Should  let  one  blossom  droop  a  day  ? 

Does  not  the  one  bird  take  a  sound 
Into  the  cloud,  when  caught  away, 
Finer  than  all  the  sounds  that  stay  ? 

Oh,  little,  quiet  boy  of  mine, 

Whose  yellow  head  lies  languid  here — 
Poor  yellow  head,  its  restless  shine 

Brightened  the  butterflies  last  year ! — 
Whose  pretty  hands  may  intertwine 

With  paler  hands  unseen  but  near : 

You  are  my  favorite  now,  I  fear ! 


THE   CLOTHES    OF   A    GHOST. 
[  The  Spirit  of  a  Beautiful  and  Vain  Woman  speaks.] 

r  I  ^HEY  were  shut  from  me  in  a  costly  chest, 

Though  I,  in  a  woman's  slight,  sad  way, 
Of  the  lovely  things  that  I  loved  the  best, 
Held  none,  I  fear  me,  so  sweet  as  they — 
For  I  was  daintily  dressed ! 


A  preciqus  glimmer  of  gold  was  mine, 

To  coil  and  charm  on  my  bosom  then  ; 

(64) 


THE    CLOTHES    OF    A    GHOST.  65 

And  two  great  jewels  whose  restless  shine 
Troubled  the  foolish  hearts  of  men, 

Who  fancied  their  light  divine. 

These  thin  hands  wore  on  their  tremulous  grace 

Such  fair  little  gloves  as  soft  as  snows  ; 

« 

And  softly  laid  on  this  dim,  fixed  face 

Were  calm,  clear  colors  of  white  and  rose, 
In  another  time  and  place. 

There's  a  withering,  weird  half-picture  of  Me — 
No,  of  my  Clothes — on  a  shadowy  wall : 

A  wonderful  painter,  they  said,  was  he, 
Who  studied  my  drapery,  that  was  all, 

Not  guessing  what  I  might  be. 


66  THE    CLOTHES    OF    A    GHOST. 

Yet  he  followed  me,  in  my  far,  flushed  day, 
And  thought  he  knew  me,  and  held  me  dear; 

And  now,  should  I  waver  across  his  way, 

He  would  grow  as  ghastly  as  I  am,  with  fear, 
Though  he  is  so  wise  and  gray ! 

But  my  beautiful  Clothes  were  his  despair — 
They  were  so  well-cut,  so  charmingly  made. 

It  is  best  that  they  were  not  worn  threadbare  ; 
It  is  best  that  I  did  not  feel  them  fade ; 
It  is  best — did  he  ever  care  ? 

I,  a  Thing  too  fearfully  fine  to  show, 

Or  stain  the  starlight  wherein  I  pass, 
Must  still  have  the  old,  fierce  vanity  grow, 


THE    CLOTHES    OF    A    GHOST.  6/ 

Must  yearn  by  the  water,  as  by  a  glass, 

For  a  glimpse  of — Nothing,  I  know ! 

Oh,  my  lovely  Clothes  that  I  still  admire ! 

They  were  only  fashioned  for  moth  and  rust ; 
Yet  I,  their  Wearer,  though  scarred  by  fire, 

Shall  sit  with  the  gentle  ghosts,  I  trust, 

Who  once  wore  meaner  attire! 

For,  had  I  been  less  like  the  lilies  arrayed — 
They  of  the  field  that  toil  not  nor  spin — 

I  had  thought  of  my  Father's  work,  nor  stayed 
In  empty  glory,  in  shining  sin, 

Far  into  the  final  shade. 


FLIGHT. 


T^HROUGH  field  and  flood  and  fire  I  go, 
Wherefore  and  where  I  do  not  know. 


Through  field,  —  my  tangled  path  is  crossed 
With  winds  and  stinging  spears  of  frost. 


Through  field,  —  the  stones  rise  up  and  wound 

My  fearful  feet,  that  stain  the  ground. 
(68) 


FLIGHT.  69 

Through  field,  —  sometimes  one  rose  forlorn 
Gives  me  its  flush,  without  its  thorn. 

Through  flood,  —  the  wide  rains  beat  my  brow; 
The  world  is  only  water  now. 

Through  flood,  —  wave  after  wave  there  is: 
Wave  after  wave,  —  what  else  but  this? 

Through  flood,  —  one  sea  another  meets; 
See  Arctic  ice  in  tropic  heats ! 

Through  flood,  —  there  is  one  ship  in  sight: 
If  I  might  reach  it,  —  if  I  might! 


70  FLIGHT. 

Through  fire,  —  what  flames  and  flames  there  be ! 
The  world  is  only  fire  to  me. 

Through  fire,  —  how  palace  spire  and  wall 
Put  shining  garments  on  and  fall ! 

Through  fire,  —  I  hear  the  last  voice  cry, 
"The  world  is  ashes."     But  am  I? 

Calm  on  the  awful  element, 

I  turn  and  say,  "I  am  content." 


BEATRICE    CENCL 

[Seen  in  a  City  Shop-window.] 

/^\UT  of  low  light  an  exquisite  faint  face 
Suddenly  started.     Goldenness  of  hair, 

A  South-look  of  sweet-sorrowful  eyes,  a  trace 
Of  prison-paleness  :  what  if  these  were  there, 

When  Guido's  hand  could  never  reach  the  grace 
That  glimmered  on  me  from  the  Italian  air — 
Fairness  so  fierce,  or  fierceness  half  so  fair  ? 


72  BEATRICE    CENCI. 

"Is  it  some  Actress?"  a  slight  school-boy  said. 

Some  Actress?     Yes. 

-The  curtain  rolled  away, 
Dusty  and  dim.     The  scene — among  tHe  dead — 

In  some  weird,  gloomy-pillared  palace  lay  ; 
The  Tragedy,  which  we  have  brokenly  read, 

With  its  two  hundred  ghastly  years  was  gray : 

None   dared    applaud   with    flowers    her    shadowy 
way — 

Yet,  ah !  how  bitterly  well  she  seemed  to  play  ! 

Hush !  for  a  child's  quick  murmur  breaks  the  charm 
Of  terror  that  was  winding  round  me  so  ; 

And,  at  the  white  touch  of  her  pretty  arm, 
Darkness  and  Death  and  Agony  crouch  low 


BEATRICE    CENCI. 

In  old-time  dungeons :  "  Tell  me,  (is  it  harm 
To  ask  you  ?)  is  the  picture  real,  though  ? — 
And  why  the  beautiful  ladies,  all,  you  know, 
Live  so  far-off,  and  die  so  long  ago  ? " 


73 


OVER    IN    KENTUCKY. 

"r  I  ^HIS  is  the  smokiest  city  in  the  world," 

A  slight  voice,  wise  and  weary,  said,  "  I  know. 
My  sash  is  tied,  and,  if  my  hair  was  curled, 
I  'd  like  to  have  my  prettiest  hat  and  go 
There  where  some  violets  had  to  stay,  you  said, 
Before  your  torn-up  butterflies  were  dead — 

Over  in  Kentucky." 

Then  one,  whose  half-sad  face  still  wore  the  hue 
The  North  Star  loved  to  light  and  linger  on, 

(74) 


OVER    IN    KENTUCKY.  75 

Before  the  war,  looked  slowly  at  me  too, 

* 

And  darkly  whispered:  "What  is  gone  is  gone. 
Yet,  though  it  may  be  better  to  be  free, 
I  'd  rather  have  things  as  they  used  to  be 

Over  in  Kentucky." 

Perhaps  I  thought  how  fierce  the  master's  hold, 
Spite  of  all  armies,  kept  the  slave  within  ; 

How  iron  chains,  when  broken,  turned  to  gold, 
In  empty  cabins,  where  glad  songs  had  been 

Before  the  Southern  sword  knew  blood  and  rust, 

Before  wild  cavalry  sprang  from  the  dust, 

Over  in  Kentucky. 

Perhaps but,  since  two  eyes,  half-full  of  tears, 

Half- full  of  sleep,  would  love  to  keep  awake 


76  OVER    IN    KENTUCKY. 

With  fairy  pictures  from  my  fairy  years, 

•# 

I  have  a  phantom  pencil  that  can  make 
Shadows  of  moons,  far  back  and  faint,  to  rise 
On  dewier  grass  and  in  diviner  skies, 

Over  in  Kentucky. 

For  yonder  river,  wider  than  the  sea, 

Seems  sometimes  in  the  dusk  a  visible  moan 

Between  two  worlds — one  fair,  one  dear  to  me. 
The  fair  has  forms  of  ever-glimmering  stone, 

Weird-whispering  ruin,  graves  where  legends  hide, 

And  lies  in  mist  upon  the  charmed  side, 

• 

Over  in  Kentucky. 

The  dear  has  restless,  dimpled,  pretty  hands, 
Yearning  toward  unshaped  steel,  unfancied  wars, 


OVER    IN    KENTUCKY.  77 

Unbuilcled  cities,  and  unbroken  lands, 

With  something  sweeter  than  the  faded  stars 
And  dim,  dead  dews  of  my  lost  romance,  found 
In  beauty  that  has  vanished  from  the  ground 

Over  in  Kentucky. 

CINCINNATI,  Ohio. 


AN    EAST    INDIAN    FAIRY    STORY. 

A   LL  day  she  was  yellow  and  gray  and  thin ; 

All  day  she  was  troubled  with  time  and  tears ; 
All  day  she  was  dressed  in  the  withered  skin 
Of  a  woman  who  lived  a  hundred  years. 


All  day  she  begged,  through  the  heavy  heat, 

For  a  drop  of  water,  a  grain  of  rice  ; 
But  she  sat,  in  the  twilight,  still  and  sweet, 

Close  to  the  leaves  of  the  blossoming  spice. 

(78) 


AN    EAST    INDIAN    FAIRY    STORY. 


79 


At  a  fairy  fountain  dim  in  the  air, 

In  a  garment  white  as  a  priestess  wears, 

With  a  lotus-bud  in  her  lovely  hair, 

And  her  hand  in  the  water,  she  said  her  prayers. 

"Oh,  well  do  I  hide  my  beauty  all  day 

From  the  sun  and  the  cruel  eyes  I  dread ; 
But  the  gods  can  see  me  when  I  pray, 

And  I  must  look  fair  to  the  gods,"  she  said. 


BABY    OR   BIRD? 

"  T)  UT  is  he  a  Baby  or  a  Bird  ?" 

Sometimes  I  fancy  I  do  not  know; 
His  voice  is  as  sweet  as  I  ever  heard 
Far  up  where  the  light  leaves  blow. 


Then  his  lovely  eyes,  I  think,  would  see 
As  clear  as  a  Bird's  in  the  upper  air ; 
And  his  red-brown  head,  it  seems  to  me, 

Would  do  for  a  Bird  to  bear. 
(80) 


BABY    OR    BIRD  ?  8l 

"If  he  were  a  Bird,"  you  wisely  say, 

"  He  would  have  some  wings  to  know  him  by:" 
Ah,  he  has  wings,  that  are  flying  away 
Forever — how  fast  they  fly  ! 


They  are  flying  with  him,  by  day,  by  night ; 

Under  suns  and  stars,  over  storm  and  snow, 
These  fair,  fine  wings,  that  elude  the  sight, 

In  softest  silence  they  go. 

Come,  kiss  him  as  often  as  you  may 


Hush,  never  talk  of  this  time  next  year, 
For  the  same  small  Bird  that  we  pet  to-day, 
To-morrow  is  never  here ! 


SAY  THE  SWEET  WORDS. 

^"^  AY  the  sweet  words,  say  them  soon ; 

You  have  said  the  bitter — 
Changed  to  tears,  by  this  dim  moon 
You  may  see  them  glitter. 

Say  the  sweet  words  soon,  I  pray — 

Mine  is  piteous  pleading: 
Haste  to  draw  the  steel  away, 

Though  the  wound  keep  bleeding. 


(82) 


v 


A  BUTTERFLY'S  MESSAGE. 


/^~XUT  in  the  dark,  imploring  hands  I  wrung, 

And  reached  for  pity  yearningly  and  high, 
While  my  own  soul,  with  fierce  fever  stung, 

Answered  him,  cry  for  cry  - 
"  Come  in,  and  see  him  die." 


Come  in  and  see  him  die  ?  That  was  not  he 
So  white  and  strange,  so  like  the  very  dead. 

Far  back  in  dew  and  flowers  could  I  not  see 
His  pretty  glimmering  head, 

And  torn  straw  hat,  instead  ? 

(83) 


84  A  BUTTERFLY'S  MESSAGE. 

I   moaned  and  moaned:    "Oh,  give   me  back  my 

child!" 

An  Angel  laid  a  small  white  garment  by, 
And  looked  at  me  through  tears.     I  only  smiled, 

To  see  him  fly  and  fly 
Alone  through  God's  fair  sky. 

"I  will  be  very  patient  now  and  sweet," 
I  whispered  to  the  Angel  as  he  flew, 

"  And  lead — through  thorns,  it  must  be — little  feet 
Forever  nearer  you." 
But — what  I  was  he  knew  ! 


"  If  I  forget,  send  me  some  silent  sign — 

That  butterfly  he  used  to  follow  so, 
Or  its  next  summer-ghost,  shall  seem  divine 


A  BUTTERFLY'S  MESSAGE.  85 


Reproof,  and  I  shall  know. 
Oh !  hear  me  as  you  go." 


To-day,  when  some  small  want  had  made  me  fret, 
A  sudden  butterfly  wavered  around. 

Blown  from  another  world  it  was,  and  yet 
I  felt  a  subtle  wound. 
It  would  not  touch  the  ground. 


The  passionate  words,  "  Give  back  my  child,"  the 
vow 

To  the  still  Angel  which  last  year  I  made, 
And  broke,  were  bitterly  remembered  now; 

And  I  was  sore  afraid 

There  in  the  haunted  shade. 


86  A  BUTTERFLY'S  MESSAGE. 

Because  no  phantom  child  is  following  you, 
Come  to  me  often,  phantom  butterfly  ! 

Help  me  to  keep  my  tearful  promise  true  ; 
For  when  you  tremble  by, 
My  guilty  heart  knows  why. 


LEAVING   LOVE. 

"  T  F  one  should  stay  in  Italy  a  while, 

With  bloom  to  hide  the  dust  beneath  her  feet, 
With  birds  in  love  with  roses  to  beguile 
Her  life  until  its  sadness  grew  too  sweet ; 


"  If  she  should,  slowly,  see  some  statue  there, 

Divine  with  whiteness  and  with  coldness,  keep 
A  very  halo  in  the  hovering  air ; 

If  she  should  weep — because  it  could  not  weep  ; 

(87) 


88  LEAVING   LOVE. 

"  If  she  should  waste  each  early  gift  of  grace 

In  watching  it  with  rapturous  despair, 
Should  kiss  her  youth  out  on  its  stony  face, 
And  feel  the  grayness  gathering  toward  her  hair: 

"  Then  fancy,  though  it  had  till  now  seemed  blind, 

Blind  to  her  little  fairness,  it  could  see 
How  scarred  of  soul,  how  wan  and  worn  of  mind, 
How  faint  of  form  and  faded,  she  must  be  ; 


"  If  she  should  moan  :  'Ah,  land  of  flower  and  fruit, 

Ah,  fiercely  languid  land,  undo  your  charm  ! 
Ah,  song  impassioned,  make  your  music  mute  ! 
Ah,  bosom,  shake  away  my  clinging  arm  ! ' 


LEAVING    LOVE.  89 

"Then  swiftly  climb  into  the  mountains  near, 
And  set  her  face  forever  toward  the  snow, 
And  feel  the  North  in  chasm  and  cliff,  and  hear 
No  echo  from  the  fairyland  below ; 


If  she  should  feel  her  own  new  loneliness, 

With  every  deep-marked,  freezing  step  she  trod, 

Nearing  (and  in  its  nearness  growing  less) 
The  vast  and  utter  loneliness  of  God ; 


"If  back  to  scented  valleys  she  should  call, 

This  woman  that  I  fancy — only  she — 
Would  it  remind  one  statue  there  at  all, 
O  cruel  Silence  in  the  South,  of — me?'' 


THE   BLACK   PRINCESS. 

[A  true  Fable  of  my  old  Kentucky  Nurse.] 

T   KNEW  a  Princess  :  she  was  old, 

Crisp-haired,  flat-featured,  with  a  look 
Such  as  no  dainty  pen  of  gold 
Would  write  of  in  a  Fairy  Book. 

So  bent  she  almost  crouched,  her  face 

Was  like  the  Sphinx's  face,  to  me, 
Touched  with  vast  patience,  desert  grace, 

And  lonesome,  brooding  mystery. 
(90) 


THE    BLACK   PRINCESS.  QI 

What  wonder  that  a  faith  so  strong 

As  hers,  so  sorrowful,  so  still, 
Should  watch  in  bitter  sands  so  long, 

Obedient  to  a  burdening  will ! 


This  Princess  was  a  Slave — like  one 
I  read  of  in  a  painted  tale; 

Yet  free  enough  to  see  the  sun, 
And  all  the  flowers,  without  a  vail. 


Not  of  the  Lamp,  not  of  the  Ring, 
The  helpless,  powerful  Slave  was  she, 

But  of  a  subtler,  fiercer  Thing: 
She  was  the  Slave  of  Slavery. 


92  THE   BLACK   PRINCESS. 

Court-lace  nor  jewels  had  she  seen : 
She  wore  a  precious  smile,  so  rare 

That  at  her  side  the  whitest  queen 
Were  dark — her  darkness  was  so  fair. 


Nothing  of  loveliest  loveliness 

This  strange,  sad  Princess  seemed  to  lack ; 
Majestic  with  her  calm  distress 

She  was,  and  beautiful  though  black : 


Black,  but  enchanted  black,  and  shut 
In  some  vague  Giant's  tower  of  air, 

Built  higher  than  her  hope  was.     But 

The  True  Knight  came  and  found  her  there. 


THE    BLACK   PRINCESS.  93 

The  Knight  of  the  Pale  Horse,  he  laid 
His  shadowy  lance  against  the  spell 

That  hid  her  Self:  as  if  afraid, 

The  cruel  blackness  shrank  and  fell. 


Then,  lifting  slow  her  pleasant  sleep, 
He  took  her  with  him  through  the  night, 

And  swam  a  River  cold  and  deep, 
And  vanished  up  an  awful  Height. 


And,  in  her  Father's  House  beyond, 
They  gave  her  beauty  robe  and  crown : 

On  me,  I  think,  far,  faint,  and  fond, 

Her  eyes  to-day  look,  yearning,  down. 


ONE   POET'S    SILENCE. 

H ROUGH  all  his  youth  he  heard  the  Greek 

winds  blow — 

The  very  voices  of  the  Muses  they, 
Speaking,  mysterious  and  ghostly-low, 

Out  of  the  dusk,  two  thousand  years  away. 

He  saw  Olympus  in  its  ancient  glow: 

But  then  he  saw  light  foreign  children  play, 

In  some  great  temple  roofed  with  heaven,  below, 
With  waxen  dolls  in  dresses  thin  and  gay. 

(94) 


ONE    POETS    SILENCE. 


95 


He  looked  at  them  and  murmured  :  "  Even  so 

Do  all  the  little  poets  of  to-day 
Set  their  poor  painted  images  for  show 

In  temples  where  the  gods  alone  should  stay." 


HER  SIMILE. 

T  F  you  should  see  a  statue,  one 

Whose  marble  name  was  Silence,  sit  alone, 
Whiter  than  Death  and  sadder,  in  the  sun, 
With  stony  finger  pressed  to  lips  of  stone ; 


"  If  from  those  lips,  themselves  so  still, 

A  fountain's  waters  restlessly  should  start, 
And  make  a  little  troubled  murmur,  till 

They  all  were  dry :  this  would  be  like  my  heart." 
(96) 


A    PRETTIER    BOOK. 

"  T  T  E  has  a  prettier  -book  than  this," 

With  many  a  sob  between,  he  said ; 
Then  left  untouched  the  night's  last  kiss, 
And,  sweet  with  sorrow,  went  to  bed. 


A  prettier  book  his  brother  had?  — 
Yet  wonder-pictures  were  in  each. 

The  different  colors  made  him  sad  ; 
The  equal  value  —  could  I  teach  ? 


(97) 


98  A   PRETTIER    BOOK. 

Ah,  who  is  wiser  ?  .  .  .  Here  we  sit, 

Around  the  world's  great  hearth,  and  look, 

While  Life's  fire-shadows  flash  and  flit, 
Each  wistful  in  another's  book. 


I  see,  through  fierce  and  feverish  tears, 
Only  a  darkened  hut  in  mine ; 

Yet  in  my  brother's  book  appears 
A  palace  where  the  torches  shine. 

A  peasant,  seeking  bitter  bread 

From  the  unwilling  earth  to  wring, 

Is  in  my  book ;   the  wine  is  red, 
There  in  my  brother's,  for  the  king. 


A    PRETTIER    BOOK.  99 

A  wedding,  where  each  wedding-guest 
Has  wedding  garments  on,  in  his, — 

In  mine  one  face  in  awful  rest, 
One  coffin  never  shut,  there  is ! 


In  his,  on  many  a  bridge  of  beams 
Between  the  faint  moon  and  the  grass, 

Dressed  daintily  in  dews  and  dreams, 
The  fleet  midsummer  fairies  pass ; 

In  mine  unearthly  mountains  rise, 
Unearthly  waters  foam  and  roll, 

And  —  stared  at  by  its  deathless  eyes  — 
The  master  sells  the  fiend  a  soul ! 


IOO  -A    PRETTIER    BOOK. 

.  .  .  Put  out  the  lights.     We  will  not  look 
At  pictures  any  more.     We  weep, 

"  My  brother  has  a  prettier  book," 
And,  after  tears,  we  go  to  sleep. 


"A    PRECIOUS    SEEING." 

A  /T  Y  fairies,  weary  of  snow  and  fire, 

Of  frost  on  window  and  ice  on  tree, 
I  can  show  you  Summer  until  you  tire ; 

Come — look  behind  you  awhile  and  see: 
Why,  here  is  the  nest  in  our  old  bent  brier, 

Where  the  brown  bird  used  to  be ! 


Ah,  here  is  the  brown  bird,  just  as  shy, 

In  the  little  leaves,  with  her  warm  wings  down 

(101) 


102 

On  the  wee  white  eggs,  that,  bye  and  bye, 
Will  change  into  other  birds  as  brown 

If  you  go  too  near  you  will  make  her  fly, 
And  that  may  make  me  frown. 

And  here  is  the  flower  you  must  not  touch — 
The  first  that  bloomed  in  our  grass,  you  know. 

Your  butterflies,  look! — were  there  ever  such? — 
Wild  with  the  sun  they  glitter  and  go. 

And  here  are  the  lambs  you  loved  so  much — 
How  little  they  seem  to  grow ! 

And  here  are  the  berries  black  and  sweet ; 
And  here,  in  the  glimmer  of  lightning-flies, 


"A    PRECIOUS    SEEING. 

Is  the  gray  strange  man  you  used  to  meet, 
Who  walked  at  evening — to  reach  the  skies  ? 

Oh,  never  look  up  through  the  dark  and  sleet — 
Look  down  in  your  own  fair  eyes ! 


103 


THE    FUNERAL    OF   A  DOLL. 


used  to  call  her  Little  Nell, 
In  memory  of  that  lovely  child 
Whose  story  each  had  learned  to  tell. 
She,  too,  was  slight  and  still  and  mild, 
Blue-eyed  and  sweet  ;  she  always  smiled, 
And  never  troubled  any  one 
Until  her  pretty  life  was  done. 
And  so  they  tolled  a  tiny  bell, 

That  made  a  wailing  fine  and  faint, 
(104) 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    A    DOLL. 

As  fairies  ring,  and  all  was  well. 
Then  she  became  a  waxen  saint. 


Her  funeral  it  was  small  and  sad. 

Some  birds  sang  bird-hymns  in  the  air. 
The  humming-bee  seemed  hardly  glad, 

Spite  of  the  honey  every-where. 

The  very  sunshine  seem'd  to  wear 
Some  thought  of  death,  caught  in  its  gold, 
That  made  it  waver  wan  and  cold. 
Then,  with  what  broken  voice  he  had, 

The  Preacher  slowly  murmured  on 

(With  many  warnings  to  the  bad) 

«  t 

The  virtues  of  the  Doll  now  gone. 


IO6  THE    FUNERAL    OF    A   DOLL. 

A  paper  coffin  rosily-lined 

Had  Little  Nell.     There,  drest  in  white, 
With  buds  about  her,  she  reclined, 

A  very  fair  and  piteous  sight — 

Enough  to  make  one  sorry,  quite. 
And,  when  at  last  the  lid  was  shut 

Under  white  flowers,  I  fancied but 

No  matter.     When  I  heard  the  wind 

Scatter  Spring-rain  that  night  across 
The  Doll's  wee  grave,  with  tears  half-blind 

One  child's  heart  felt  a  grievous  loss. 


"It  was  a  funeral,  mamma.     Oh, 
Poor  Little  Nell  is  dead,  is  dead. 


THE    FUNERAL    OF    A    DOLL.  IO/ 

How  dark!— and  do  you  hear  it  blow? 

She  is  afraid."     And,  and  as  she  said 

These  sobbing  words,  she  laid  her  head 
Between  her  hands  and  whispered:  "Here 
Her  bed  is  made,  the  precious  dear- 
She  can  not  sleep  in  it,  I  know. 

And  there  is  no  one  left  to  wear 
Her  pretty  clothes.      Where  did  she  go  f 

See,  this  poor  ribbon  tied  her  hair!" 


A  PARTING   GIFT   OF   YOUTH. 

A  T  the  last  dusk  of  May  we  stood  together, 

In  the  weird  waning  of  the  last  Spring  moon, 
Too  blind  with  tears  for  either  to  see  whether 
The  other  thought:  "To-morrow  will  be  June." 


His  name  was  Youth.     I  saw  the  rose-bud,  flushing 

His  wet  cheek,  fade  into  the  full  rose  there ; 
The  music  at  his  lip  crept  toward  a  hushing, 

And  all  the  light  gold  darken'd  in  his  hair. 
(108) 


A    PARTING    GIFT    OF    YOUTH.  IOQ 

I  knew  his  beauty  had  grown  fainter,  finer; 

I  knew  the  time  was  come  for  him  to  go. 
Yet  never  had  his  presence  seemed  diviner, 

And  never,  never  did  I  love  him  so. 

He  held  a  cold  hand  toward  me  with  a  tremor : 

I  dropped  it,  and  he  turned  away  his  head. 
"  Good  bye— good  bye.     I  was  a  pretty  dreamer, 
Yet  you  will  not  regret  me  much,"  he  said. 

"I  have  a  Gift  to  leave  with  you,  at  leaving— 
Worth  more  perhaps  than  I  could  ever  be. 
Keep  it  forever,  and— forget  your  grieving. 
A  woman  has  no  time  to  grieve  for  me." 


IIO  A    PARTING    GIFT    OF    YOUTH. 

"  So  he  will  go,"  I  thought.     "Ah  well,  he  fancies 

I  scarce  am  young  enough  to  please  him  now. 
The  Fairy  Books  are  read  ;  and  light  romances, 
Perhaps,  are  rather  tiresome  anyhow. 

"  What  precious  keepsake  will  you  leave,  my  lover  ?— 

A  statue  for  a  niche  in  some  rich  room, 
Where  light  with  costly  stains  is  drifted  over 
Fair  laces  and  great  jewel-wreaths  in  bloom  ?" 

Ah,  Youth  had  vanished  from  me  like  a  vision. 

A  statue  for  a  niche  ?    Such  choice  was  mine. 
He  left  instead,  in  beautiful  derision, 

For  cottage  windows,  just  one  climbing  vine. 


A    PARTING    GIFT    OF    YOUTH.  I  I  I 

And,  year  by  year,  the  young  buds  gather  sweetly  ; 

And,  year  by  year,  I  wear  them  in  my  breast, 
Knowing  but  this:  that,  wisely  and  completely, 

My  lovely  Giver  knew  which  Gift  was  best. 


CRYING   FOR   THE    MOON. 

T  T  is  very  pretty  because  it  is  high  ; 

All  things  are  pretty  when  out  of  reach, 
And  the  prettiest  things  are  kept  in  the  sky. 
Why  ?     Can  I  ever  tell  you  why  ? 
God,  I  think,  knows  better  than  I. 

I  shall  have  to  learn  what  I  can  not  teach. 


But  it  is  yellow  sometimes,  do  you  say, 

And  sometimes  red  ? — and  you  want  it,  too? 
I  wonder  how  long  it  would  please  your  play. 

(112) 


CRYING    FOR    THE    MOON.  113 

Remember  it  does  not  shine  by  day, 
And  at  night  you'd  have  to  put  it  away — 
You  could  not  take  it  to  bed  with  you. 

Yes,  but  you  can  not  have  it,  I  fear — 

For  a  reason  as  good  as  we  find  in  books  : 
For  people  as  wise  as  you,  and  as  queer, 
Will  cry  for  the  moon,  year  after  year, 
And  go  to  their  graves  without  it,  my  dear : 
Because — it  is  larger  than  it  looks ! 


AUNT   ANNIE. 

r  I  ^HE  old  house  has,  for  being  sweet, 

Some  sweeter  reason  than  the  rose 
Which,  red  or  white,  about  the  feet 
Of  many  a  nested  home-bird  grows. 


And  sadder  reason  than  the  rain 
On  the  quaint  porch,  for  being  sad, 

(Oh,  human  pity,  human  pain !) 

The  old  house,  in  its  shadows,  had. 

("4) 


AUNT   ANNIE. 

I  sat  within  it  as  a  guest, 

I  who  went  from  it  as  a  wife;  — 

The  young  days  there,  though  not  the  best, 
Had  been  the  fairest  of  my  life : 

For  love  itself  must  ever  seem 

More  precious,  to  our  restless  youth, 

When  hovering  subtly  in  its  dream 

Than  when  we  touch  its  nestling  truth. 

I  sat  there  as  a  guest,  I  said — 

Holding  the  loveliest  boy  on  earth, 

With  his  fair,  sleepy,  yellow  head 
Close  to  the  pleasant  shining  hearth. 


I  l6  AUNT    ANNIE. 

He  laughed  out  in  his  sleep,  and  I 

Laughed  too,  and  kissed  him — when  I  heard 

A  wise  and  very  cautious  sigh  ; 

And  once  again  the  dimples  stirred. 

Aunt  Annie  looked  at  him  awhile; 

Then  shook  her  head  at  her  own  fears, 
With  more  of  sorrow  in  her  smile 

Than  I  could  ever  put  in  tears. 

"  He  is  a  pretty  boy  I  know — 

The  prettiest  in  the  world  ?     Ah,  me  ! 
One  other,  fifty  years  ago, 

Was  quite  as  pretty,  dear,  as  he. 


AUNT   ANNIE.  117 

"  Now  I  am  eighty.     Twenty-five 

Are  gone  since  last  we  heard  from  James. 
I  sometimes  think  he  is  alive." 

She  hushed,  and  looked  into  the  flames. 

"  He  used  to  tell  me,  when  a  child, 

Of  far,  strange  countries,  where  they  say 
The  flowers  bloom  all  the  year  " — she  smiled — 
"  I  can't  believe  it,  to  this  day ! 

"  And  still  I  think  he  may  have  crossed 
The  sea — and  stayed  the  other  side. 
His  letters  may  have  all  been  lost — 

Who  knows  ?     Who  knows  ?    The  world  is  wide. 


Il8  AUNT   ANNIE. 

"  I  often  think,  if  you  could  know 

How  much  he  makes  me  think  of  him, 
You  'd  guess  why  I  love  Victor  so." 
Again  the  troubled  eyes  were  dim. 

"  If  your  child,  such  a  night,  were  out 

Lost  in  this  dark  and  snow  and  sleet, 
You  would  go  wild,  I  do  not  doubt." 
I  almost  heard  her  own  heart  beat. 


"  Yet  long,  on  stormier  nights  than  this, 

Mine  has  been  out — why  should  I  care 
How  many  a  winter  now  it  is  ? 

Mine  has  been  out — and  God  knows  where." 


THE   PALACE-BURNER. 

A    PICTURE     IN    A    NEWSPAPER. 

OHE  has  been  burning  palaces.     "To  see 
The  sparks  look  pretty  in  the  wind  ?"     Well,  yes 

And  something  more.     But  women  brave  as  she 
Leave  much  for  cowards,  such  as  I,  to  guess. 


But  this  is  old,  so  old  that  everything 

Is  ashes  here — the  woman  and  the  rest. 
Two  years  are — oh!  so  long.     Now  you  may  bring 

Some  newer  pictures.     You  like  this  one  best  ? 

("9) 


I2O  THE    PALACE-BURNER. 

You  wish  that  you  had  lived  in  Paris  then  ? — 
You  would  have  loved  to  burn  a  palace,  too  ? 

But  they  had  guns  in  France,  and  Christian  men 
Shot  wicked  little  Communists  like  you. 

You  would  have  burned  the  palace  ? — Just  because 

You  did  not  live  in  it  yourself!     Oh!  why 
Have  I  not  taught  you  to  respect  the  laws  ? 

You  would  have  burned  the  palace — would  not  If 

Would  I  ?     Go  to  your  play.     Would  I,  indeed  ? 

I?     Does  the  boy  not  know  my  soul  to  be 
Languid  and  worldly,  with  a  dainty  need 

For  light  and  music?     Yet  he  questions  me. 


THE    PALACE-BURNER.  121 

Can  he  have  seen  my  soul  more  near  than  I  ? 

Ah !  in  the  dusk  and  distance  sweet  she  seems, 
With  lips  to  kiss  away  a  baby's  cry, 

Hands  fit  for  flowers,  and  eyes  for  tears  and  dreams. 

Can  he  have  seen  my  soul  ?     And  could  she  wear 

Such  utter  life  upon  a  dying  face : 
Such  unappealing,  beautiful  despair : 

Such  garments — soon  to  be  a  shroud — with  grace  ? 


Has  she  a  charm  so  calm  that  it  could  breathe 
In  damp,  low  places  till  some  frightened  hour; 

Then  start,  like  a  fair,  subtle  snake,  and  wreathe 
A  stinging  poison  with  a  shadowy  power? 


122 


THE    PALACE-BURNER. 


Would  /  burn  palaces  ?     The  child  has  seen 
In  this  fierce  creature  of  the  Commune  here, 

So  bright  with  bitterness  and  so  serene, 
A  being  finer  than  my  soul,  I  fear. 


LOVE-STORIES. 

/^AN  I  tell  any?     No: 

I  have  forgotten  all  I  ever  knew. 
I  am  too  old.     I  saw  the  fairies  go 

Forever  from  the  moonshine  and  the  dew 
Before  I  met  with  you. 


"  Rose's  grandmother  knows 
Love-stories  ?"     She  could  tell  you  one  or  two  ? 


124  LOVE-STORIES. 

"She   is    not   young?"     You   wish    that  you   were 

Rose  ? 

"  She  hears  love-stories  ?     Are  they  ever  true  ?" 
Some  time  I  may  ask  you. 

I  was  not  living  when 

Columbus  came  here,  nor  before  that  ?     So 
You  wonder  when  I  saw  the  fairies,  then  ? 

The   Indians  would  have   killed   them   all,  you 
know  ? 

"  How  long  is  long  ago  ?" 

And  if  I  am  too  old 

To  know  love-stories,  why  am  I  not  good  ? 


LOVE-STORIES.  12$ 

Why  do  n't  I  read  the  Bible,  and  not  scold  ? 
Why  do  n't  I  pray,  as  all  old  ladies  should  ? 
(I  only  wish  I  could.) 

Why  do  n't  I  buy  gray  hair  ? 

And  why 

Oh!    child,  the   Sphinx  herself  might 

spring 

Out  of  her  sands  to  answer,  should  you  dare 
Her  patience  with  your  endless  questioning. 
"  Does  she  know  any  thing  ?" 

Perhaps.     "  Then,  could  she  tell 

Love-stories  ?"     If  her  lips  were  not  all  stone  ; 


126  LOVE-STORIES. 

For  there  is  one  she  must  remember  well — 

One     whose     great     glitter     showed     a    fiery 

zone 
Brightness  beyond  its  own. 

One  whose  long  music  aches — 

How  sharp  the  sword,  how  sweet  the  snake, 

O  Queen  !— 
Into  the  last  unquiet  heart  that  breaks. 

But  the  Nile-lily  rises  faint  betwen 

You  wonder  what  I  mean  ? 

* 

I  mean  there  is  but  one 

Love-story  in  this  withered  world,  forsooth ; 


LOVE-STORIES. 


And  it  is  brief,  and  ends,  where  it  begun, 
(What  if  I  tell,  in  play,  the  dreary  truth  ?) 
With  something  we  call  Youth. 


127 


* 

HIS    FAIRY    GODMOTHER. 

[CINDERELLA  SPEAKS.] 

\  T  7 HO  felt  the  quaint  light  subtly  shining  in  ? — 

Who  heard  that  other  wind  within  the  wind  ? 
Who  saw  the  Little  Lady,  wild  and  thin, 
Pale  with  the  spirits  and  the  spells  behind  ? 


I  see  her  now;  I  take  this  withered  wand, 

A  weird  Egyptian  lily,  when  I  choose, 
(128) 


HIS    FAIRY    GODMOTHER.  I2Q 

And  wave  her  to    and  fro,  and  back  beyond 

That    lonesome    moonshine    and    those    charmed 
dews. 

I  see  her  now — if  I  but  shut  my  eyes — 

Dressed  in  the  frosty  green  of  leaves  half-dead  : 

Ah,  still  witch-smile  ;  ah,  old  and  wise  replies 
To  all  the  precious  words — you  never  said ! 

How  queer  you  both  looked  as  she  rose  and  shook 
Her    ancient,    shrunken,    clinched    hand    in   your 
face, 

Then  laid  her  finger  on  your  lip  and  took, 
Beside  you  in  the  dance,  her  sudden  place ! 


I3O  HIS    FAIRY    GODMOTHER. 

You  play  the  Prince.     Princes  grow  gray  like  you. 

'Tis  the  worn  story  slightly  changed,  in  truth  : 
Poor  Cinderella  never  found  her  shoe ; 
She  is  left  out — a  fable  of  your  youth. 

You  have  the  citrons  and  the  wine  of  life, 
Its  lights,  its  honors — what  has  it  beside? 

Her  Majesty,  the  Queen,  your  worthy  wife, 

Has  plumes  and  pearls  and  garments  purple-dye/ 

She,  in  a  peasant's  cottage,  built  low  down, 
Kisses  gold  heads  and  waits  a  twilight  voice, 

Nor  envies  you  the  palace  and  the  crown, 

But  finds  her  own  in  your  godmother's  choice. 


HIS    FAIRY    GODMOTHER.  131 

Still  she  finds  time,  in  dreaming,  evermore, 

To  wonder  if,  in  flying  sleep,  you  pass, 
Handsome  and  young,  sometimes,  from  your  great 

door, 
To  kiss  and  keep — a  Slipper  made  of  Glass ! 


WHY   SHOULD   WE   CARE? 

\  T  7 ELL,  if  the   bee  -should  sting  the   flower  to 

death, 

With  just  one  drop  of  honey  for  the  stinging; 
If  the  high  bird  should  break  its  airy  breath, 
And  lose  the  song  forever  with  the  singing, 
Why  should  we  care  ? 


If  in  our  magic-books  no  charm  is  found 

To  call  back  last  night's  moon  from  last  night's 
distance ; 


WHY    SHOULD   WE  CARE?  133 

If  violets  can  not  stay  the  whole  year  round, 
Spite  of  their  odor  and  the  dew's  resistance, 
Why  should  we  care? 


If  hands  nor  hearts  like  ours  have  strength  to  hold 
Fierce    shining    toys,    nor    treasures,   sweet    and 

simple ; 

If  nothing  can  be  ours  for  love  or  gold  ; 
If  kisses  can  not  keep  a  baby's  dimple, 
Why  should  we  care  ? 

If  sand  is  in  the  South,  frost  in  the  North, 

And  sorrow   every-where,   and    passionate  yearn 
ing ; 


134  WHY  SHOULD   WE    CARE? 

If  stars  fade  from  the  skies  ;  if  men  go  forth 

From  their  own  thresholds  and  make  no  returning, 
Why  should  we  care  ? 


If  this  same  world  can  never  be  the  same 
After  this. instant,  but  grows  grayer,  older, 

And  nearer  to  the  silence  whence  it  came ; 
If  faith  itself  is  fainter,  stiller,  colder, 
Why  should  we  care  ? 

If  the  soft  grass  is  but  a  pretty  vail 

Spread    on    our   graves    to   hide   them  when    we 

enter ; 
And,  after  we  are  gone,  if  light  should  fail, 


WHY  SHOULD  WE   CARE?  135 

And    fires    should    eat    the    green    world    to    its 
center, 

Why  should  we  care  ? 


If  tears  were  dry  and  laughter  should  seem  strange : 
And  if  the  soul  should  doubt  itself  and  falter: 

Since  God  is  God,  and  He  can  never  change, 

The  fashions  of  the  earth  and  Heaven  may  alter, 
Why  should  we  care  ? 


AT   THE   PLAY. 

T    HAVE  been  to  the  play,  my  child. 

Night  after  night  I  go. 

What  if  the  weather  be  wild  ? — 

I  am  used  to  rain  and  snow. 


Shakspeare's  Poor  Player  is  there. 

The  stage  is  wide  and  dim. 
The  music  is  old,  and  rare 

Are  the  flowers  I  fling  to  him. 

(136) 


AT   THE   PLAY.  137 

And  the  Play  keeps  wavering.     But, 
Through  forest  and  desert  and  sea, 

By  palace  and  temple  and  hut, 
The  charm  is  the  same  to  me. 


The  gods  stand  by  in  stone, 
With  calm  in  their  awful  eyes ; 

Christ  clings  to  his  cross,  alone 
In  the  bitter  world,  and  dies. 

The  Player  wears  all  the  while, 
As  soldier,  or  priest,  or  king, 

Or  peasant,  the  same  sad  smile; 

And  the  Play  is — the  same  sad  thing. 


138  AT    THE    PLAY. 

With  jewels  the  boxes  shine  ; 

Fierce  eyes  look  out  of  the  pit ; 
All  whisper:  "The  Play  is  fine," 

And  all  are  weary  of  it. 


But  the.  Player  is  at  his  best 

In  the  shadow-scene — you  shrink? — 
Where  he  falls  on  his  Brother's  breast, 

(His  Brother  is  Death,)  I  think. 


"I  WISH    THAT   I    COULD    GO." 


who  look  backward  always  look  through 
tears. 

So,  very  dimly,  somewhere,  I  do  see 
A  door  that  opens  into  lonesome  years, 

Furnished     with  —  dust    and     silence!      What 

can  be 

Sadder  than  absence  of  fair  household  sights, 
Beloved  pictures,  warm  and  pleasant  lights, 

In  empty  rooms  where  -     -  Does  it  call  to  me, 

(139) 


I4O  "I   WISH    THAT   I    COULD    GO." 

That  first  child-voice  which  taught  my  life  to  know 
What  music  meant? — 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


I  turned  and  kissed  her — "You  had  better  stay." 
She    heard    the    wood-bells    ring    among    the 

herds : 
"  I  want  to  see  so  many  lambs  to-day," 

She  answered  in  her  little  piteous  words, 
Sweetly  half-said  and  tenderly  half-guessed  ; 
"  You  said  there  was  one  robin  with  a  nest 

Up  in  the  apple-flowers.     I  love  the  birds — 
Ever  so  many  times — and  you  could  show 
Me  where  they  sleep.     I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


"  I    WISH    THAT    I    COULD    GO.  14! 

"  It  is  too  far.     And  here  are  butterflies  ; 

Look — one — two — three.     Go,   catch    them    if 

you  will." 

"  I've  seen  all  these  too  much — they  hurt  my  eyes  ! 
They're    naughty    things — they    never   can    be 

still ! 

I  would  not  try  to  catch  another  one 
Here,  in  the  yard,  to  save  its  life!     I'd  run 

After  some  pretty  new  ones  on  the  hill 
Away  off — almost  to  the  skies !  And,  oh  ! 
I'd  be  so  sweet.  I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


Nor  was  it  only  toward  the  clear  white  light, 
Led  subtly  on  by  many  a  violet, 


142  "I    WISH    THAT    I    COULD    GO." 

She  would  have  followed    me.     The  great  fierce 

Night 

Might  lie  beside  our  cottage,  black  and  wet, 
And  make  mad  hungry  noises.     Still,  if  I 
Thought  fit  to  pass  it,  her  appealing  cry 

(The  same  that  haunts  me,  sorrowfully,  yet) 
Was  with  me  always — most  forlorn  and  slow : 
"  If  it  is  dark,  I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


If  it  is  dark?" — what  was  the  Dark?     She  knew. 

Just   a   brief  bridge   which    others   must   have 

passed — 
With  a  slight  shiver,  it  might  be — into 

A  glitter  of  lamps  :  a  life  whose  heart  beat  fast 


"I    WISH    THAT    I    COULD    GO.  143 

Under  sweet  colors,  jewels,  music,  all 
The  showers  of  fairy  gifts  that,  fairily,  fall 

On  some  Strange  City,  where  -    Oh  !  faint 

and  vast, 

Time  lies  behind,  yet  nearer  seems  to  grow 
That  eager  sound: 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


* 

It  is  in  my  own  soul.     Myself  a  child, 

Some  ghostly  doorway  with  my  grief  I  fill ; 

Eager  for  blossoms  beautiful  and  wild 

Just  out  of  reach ;  eager  to  climb  some  hill, 

So  far  away  and  almost  to  the  skies-, 

And  (tired  of  old  ones)  find  new  butterflies. 


144  "  1    WISH    THAT    I    COULD    GO. 

Some   One  seems   gone  whom   I   would    follow 

still. 
Across  the  Dark  I  see  your  charmed  glow, 

Strange  City,  shine 

"  I  wish  that  I  could  go." 


A   LIFE   IN   A    MIRROR. 

S^\   PRETTY  Prisoner,  young  and  sweet, 

But  just  a  little  white  and  worn, 
It  makes  my  heart  ache  when  I  meet 
Such  beauty  so  forlorn  ; 


To  think  the  lilies  in  your  grass 

Must  glimmer  out  and  you  not  know, 

That  flocks  of  butterflies  must  pass 
And  still  elude  you  so  ; 


146  A   LIFE    IN    A    MIRROR. 

To  think  there  is  a  sun  by  day, 

A  moon  whose  fairness  fills  the  night, 

Yet  you,  a  captive,  pine — away 
From  every  lovely  sight. 


You  babble  much  of  foreign  things : 

How  you  have  seen  the  world,  perchance ; 

And  how  great  generals  and  kings 
Have  asked  you  once  to  dance. 


Your  peerless  face  has  made  you  dream ! 

For  in  your  life  you  never  was 
(Though  far  away  you  sometimes  seem) 

Outside  of  your  own  glass. 


A    LIFE    IN    A    MIRROR. 

In  it  you  sleep,  in  it  you  wake, 
In  it  at  last  your  dust  shall  be — 

For  Death,  and  only  Death,  can  break 
Your  fate  and  set  you  free ! 


147 


\  T  7 HEN  the  full  moon's  light  is  burning 

At  its  brightest,  it  is  pleasant, 
Sometimes,  blindly  to  sit  yearning 
For  the  slightness  of  the  crescent ; 


When  the  finished  rose  is  shining 
In  the  sun  with  flushed  completeness, 

For  the  vanished  bud  repining, 
Wilfully  to  miss  its  sweetness. 


(148) 


OUR  OLD  AjSTD  NEW  LANDLORDS— 1869  70. 


U  T)ERHAPS,"    ONE  kindly   said,   through    his 

gray  smile, 

"I've  been  a  generous  Landlord,  on  the  whole; 
My  tenants  will  remember  me  a  while, 
And  pay  for  some  sweet  masses  for  my  soul. 

"They  have  had  warm-dyed  wool  and  linens  fine; 
My  fair  wide  harvests  gave  them  daily  bread  ; 
I  sent  them,  for  their  weddings,  fruits  and  wine, 
And — flowers,  too,  for  the  coffins  of  their  dead. 

"For  Travel  I  have  done  some  handsome  things  ; 

The  old  East  has  her  grand  Canal  at  last, 

(H9) 


I5O       OUR  OLD  AND  NEW  LANDLORDS. 

Whose    plan    winds  vaguely    to    her    spice-sealed 

kings  ; 
The  West  on  her  new  Railway  journeys  fast. 


"  There  has  been  trouble  that  I  could  not  reach : 
God  pity  this — to  Him  I  leave  the  rest, 

And   Church    and    State but   I  '11  not  make  a 

speech  ! 
For  Church  and  State  are  bitter  at  the  best. 


"  Now  as  for  Spain  and  all  her  castles — well, 

I  Ve  advertised  her  royal  residence, 
Which  for  good  reasons  was  to  let,  or  sell  : 
An  Occupant  will  come — no  matter  whence. 


OUR  OLD  AND  NEW  LANDLORDS.        151 

Then,  Rome — why  should  I  worry  about  Rome  ? 

The  Holy  Father  is — infirm,  I  say, 
And  needs  grave  Council  at  St.  Peter's  dome, 

Where  let  him  keep  his  Chamber  while  he  may. 


"  Make  ready  now  for  greeting  and  good  cheer — 
(And  let  your  tears  for  me  be  few,  at  most)  ; 
Enjoy  yourselves  with  this  Young  Fellow  here, 
And   pledge  with    laugh   and    song   my   worthy 
Ghost ! " 


The  OTHER,  springing  boyish  on  the  scene, 

Salutes  with  careless  grace  high  Guests  around  ; 

Nods  to  the  Emperor,  the  Sultan,  the  Queen, 
And  makes  our  President  a  bow  profound  ! 


$2  OUR    OLD    AND    NEW    LANDLORDS. 

Your  Excellency,  let 's  have  a  cigar, 

(His  Majesty,  there,  can  no  longer  smoke,) 

And  talk  of — horses,  or  of  the  late  War. 

Your   pardon — you  don't    talk."     Grant   never 
spoke. 


Perhaps  he  had  not  time  to  speak,  before 

A  charming  clamor  spread  from  East  to  West ; 

Sublime  in  furs  and  jewels,  at  the  door 

Broke  brightly  in  earth's  beautiful  Oppressed ! 


"You  want  your  New  Year  presents,  do  you  not  ? — 
Ribbons,  and  rings,  and  lots  of  baby  toys?" 

"  We  want  the  Right  of  Suffrage,  that  is  what ! " 
They  answered,  with  a  scornful,  mighty  noise. 


OUR  OLD  AND  NEW  LANDLORDS.        153 

With  Train,  the  chivalrous,  and  precious  Mill, 
Woman,  the  great  Superior  of  Man"- 

Hush,  pretty  dears,  you  shall  have  what  you  will — 
That  is,  I  mean,  I  '11  help  you  if  I  can ! " 


A  DOUBT. 

T  T  is  subtle,  and  weary,  and  wide  ; 

It  measures  the  world  at  my  side  ; 

It  touches  the  stars  and  the  sun  ; 
It  creeps  with  the  dew  to  my  feet ; 

It  broods  on  the  blossoms,  and  none, 
Because  of  its  brooding,  are  sweet ; 
It  slides  as  a  snake  in  the  grass, 
Whenever,  wherever  I  pass. 

It  is  blown  to  the  South  with  the  bird  ; 

At  the  North,  through  the  snow,  it  is  heard  ; 

With  the  moon  from  the  chasms  of  night 
(i54) 


A    DOUBT.  t       155 

It  rises,  forlorn  and  afraid  ; 

If  I  turn  to  the  left  or  the  right 
I  can  not  forget  or  evade ; 
When  it  shakes  at  my  sleep  as  a  dream, 
If  I  shudder,  it  stifles  my  scream. 

It  smiles  from  the  cradle ;  it  lies 

On  the  dust  of  the  grave,  and  it  cries 

In  the  winds  and  the  waters  ;  it  slips 
In  the  flush  of  the  leaf  to  the  ground  ; 

It  troubles  the  kiss  at  my  lips  ; 
It  lends  to  my  laughter  a  sound  ; 
It  makes  of  the  picture  but  paint  ; 
It  unhaloes  the  brow  of  the  saint. 

The  ermine  and  crown  of  the  king, 
The  sword  of  the  soldier,  the  ring 


156 


A    DOUBT. 


Of  the  bride,  and  the  robe  of  the  priest, 
The  gods  in  their  prisons  of  stone, 

The  angels  that  sang  in  the  East — 
Yea,  the  cross  of  my  Lord,  it  has  known  ; 
And  wings  there  are  none  that  can  fly 
From  its  shadow  with  me,  till  I  die  ! 


THIS  WORLD. 

T  ~\   7H  Y  do  we  love  her  ?— that  she  gave  us  birth  ? 
How   can  we  thank   her   for    ourselves? 

Are  we, 
The  pale,  weak  children  of  her  old  age,  worth 

The  light  that  shows—      —there  is  a  mirror.    See ! 

Why  do  we  love  her  ?     In  her  withering  days, 
Careless  or  frozen-hearted,  half-asleep, 

She  leaves  us  to  our  fierce  and  foolish  plays, 
Nor  kisses  off  the  after-tears  we  weep. 


158  THIS    WORLD. 

She  lets  us  follow  our  own  childish  cries, 

And  find  strange  playmates  ;  lets  our  baby  hands 

Reach  for  the  red  glare  in  the  tiger's  eyes, 
Or  the  fair  snake — the  rainbow  of  the  sands. 


She  lets  us  climb,  through  deadly  dews  and  vines, 
After  illusive  birds  that  nurse  no  song, 

Or  die  for  some  faint  wreath  of  snow,  that  shines 
On  those  great  heights  where  gods  alone  belong. 

Still  let  us  love  her  for  her  lovely  years. 

Yet  beautiful  with  moonlight  beauty,  she 
Now  wonders  vaguely,  through  forlornest  tears, 

How  far  away  her  morning's  sun  may  be. 


THIS    WORLD.  159 

Still  let  us  love  her.     She  is  sad  and  blind, 
And  with  wan  arms  forever  reaching  back, 

Into  the  dreadful  dark  of  Space,  to  find 

Her  radiant  footsteps — that  have  left  no  track. 

Still  let  us  love  her,  though,  indeed,  she  seems 
To  give  to  our  small  wants  small  heed  at  best. 

Let  her  sit  muffled  in  her  ancient  dream, 

With  souls  of  her  first  children  at  her  breast. 

Better  she  brood,  with  wide  unshadowed  eyes, 
On  phantom  Hebrews  under  phantom  palms, 

With  phantom  roses  flushed,  and  phantom  skies 
Brooding  above  them  full  of  Bible  calms  ; 


I6O  THIS    WORLD. 

Better  she  help  the  young  Egyptian  make 

His  play-house  pyramid  with  her  fancy's  hands, 

Or  teach  his  Memnon's  pulseless  heart  to  ache 
With  hollow  music  in  forgotten  sands  ; 

Better,  in  vanished  temples,  watch  the  Greek 
Carve  his  divine  white  toys  ;  better  she  hold 

The  Roman's  savage  sword  and  hear  the  shriek, 
Than  feel  the  silence  through  the  silken  fold  ; 

For  Antony's  dusk  queen  to  lift  the  snake, 
For  Brutus'  wife  the  shining  death  of  fire — 

Yea,  all  were  better  than  to  sit  and  take 
Dull  honey  from  To-day  and  never  tire. 


THIS   WORLD. 


161 


So  let  us  love  her,  our  poor  Mother  yet, 

For  songs,  for  pictures  that  her  sons  have  made  ; 

Aye,  let  us  love  her  more  if  she  forget — 

To  think  of  us  would  make  her  shrink,  afraid ! 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

"  I  ^HEY  fade  to  fairies,  fade  and  pass 

Into  the  dimness  of  the  dew, 
Into  the  greenness  of  the  grass, 

Sometimes — my  pretty  children  do  ; 
They  wander  off  into  the  wind, 
And  leave  me,  dreaming,  far  behind. 

Then  some  great  grayness  round  me  steals  ; 
My  hollow  hands  I  faintly  fold  ; 

The  awful  touch  of  blindness  seals 
(162) 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

My  glimmering  eyes,  and  I  am  old — 
So  old  I  care  not  for  my  years, 
So  old  that  I  have  done  with  tears. 

Soon  little  faces,  flushed  and  fair, 

As  other  faces  used  to  be, 
Climb,  full  of  wonder,  up  my  chair, 

And  whisper,  while  they  look  at  me ; 
Till,  suddenly,  some  timid  tongue 
Asks  me  if  I  were  ever  young. 

Then,  wild  and  beautiful  like  a  bird, 
Upon  my  shoulders  Youth  alights  ; 

Old  music  from  its  sleep  is  heard  ; 
I  linger  in  diviner  nights; 


164       THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

A  lonesome  crescent  cuts  the  sky  ; 
Weird,  windy  shadows  waver  by. 

One  lily,  yellow  as  the  moon, 

Rises  and  shakes  its  wrinkles  out ; 

A  red  geranium  follows  soon, 

And  breathes  its  haunted  scents  about ; 

From  half  a  century  of  dust 

A  slighted  hand  is  wanly  thrust. 

Then  my  fair,  dreary  dream  will  pass — 

No  longer  young  nor  old  am  I  ; 
My  fairies  leave  the  dew  and  grass, 

Out  of  the  wind  my  fairies  fly ; 
My  own  sweet  children  sweetly  say  : 
"  You  cry  sometimes — when  we  're  away." 


A  MASKED  BALL. 

r  I  ^HERE,  in  the  music  strangely  met, 

From  lands  and  ages  wide  apart, 

They  came,  like  ghosts  remembering  yet 

The  old  sweet  yearning  of  the  heart. 

What  sad  and  shining  names  were  heard  ! 

What  stories  swept  the  dust,  like  trains  ! 
What  minster-buried  echoes  stirred  ! 

What  backward  splendors,  backward  stains ! 

(165) 


1 66  A   MASKED    BALL. 

Still  two  by  two,  as  moved  by  fate, 
They  came  from  silence  and  from  song ; 

The  tyranny  of  love  or  hate 

With  that  mock-pageant  passed  along. 

There  kings  and  cardinals  long  gone 

Forgot  their  feuds,  and  joined  the  dance. 

His  Holiness  himself  looked  on, 

With  something  merry  in  his  glance. 

There,  priestly,  yet  not  loath  to  please, 
Stood  Abelard  ;  by  some  sad  whim, 

In  convent  coif,  poor  HeloYse 

Was  near,  confessing — what  ? — to  him. 


A    MASKED    BALL.  lt>7 

There,  with  forlornest  beauty  wan, 
Young  Amy  Robsart  walked  unseen, 

While  my  Lord  Leicester's  looks  were  on 
Elizabeth,  his  gracious  queen. 

There — though  the  blonde  Rowena  gazed, 
Gold-haired  and  stately,  with  surprise- 
Jeweled  and  dark,  Rebecca  raised 
The  Saxon  knight  half-wistful  eyes. 

And  there,  despite  his  inky  cloak, 

The  melancholy  Dane  seemed  gay, 
And  to  Polonius'  daughter  spoke 

Things  Shakespeare  does  not  have  him  say. 


1 68  A    MASKED    BALL. 

"  I  think/'  he  said,  "  I  know  you  by 

That  most  fantastic  wreath  you  wear." 
She,  with  a  little  languid  sigh, 

Asked — if  his  father's  ghost  were  there. 

"  That  voice — though  veiled,  it  can  not  hide. 

One  trifling  favor  I  would  ask  : 
Give  me — Yourself." 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried  ; 


"  You  are — a  stranger  in  a  mask." 


What  more  ?     Ah,  well !     Ophelia  fled 

From  Hamlet — when  his  mask  was  raised. 
"I — was — mistaken,"  Hamlet  said, 
As  in  Ophelia's  face  he  gazed. 


A    MASKED    BALL. 

• 

Ah,  in  the  world,  as  at  the  ball, 

There  is  a  mask  that  lovers  wear ; 
We  call  it  Youth. 

But  let  it  fall, 
Then — Hamlet  and  Ophelia  stare. 


169 


A  WOMAN'S  BIRTHDAY. 

T  T  is  the  Summer's  great  last  heat, 

It  is  the  Fall's  first  chill :  they  meet. 
Dust  in  the  grass,  du'st  in  the  air, 
Dust  in  the  grave — and  every-where  | 
Ah,  late  rose,  eaten  to  the  heart  : 

Ah,  bird,  whose  southward  yearnings  start : 
The  one  may  fall,  the  other  fly. 
Why  may  not  I  ?     Why  may  not  I  ? 

Oh,  Life !  that  gave  me  for  my  dower 

The  hushing  song, 'the  worm-gnawed  flower, 
(170) 


A  WOMAN'S  BIRTHDAY.  171 

Let  drop  the  rose  from  your  shrunk  breast 
And  blow  the  bird  to  some  warm  nest ; 
Flush  out  your  dying  colors  fast : 
The  last  dead  leaf— will  be  the  last. 
No  ?     Must  I  wear  your  piteous  smile 
A  little  while,  a  little  while  ? 

The  withering  world  accepts  her  fate 
Of  mist  and  moaning,  soon  or  late  ; 
She  had  the  dew,  the  scent,  the  spring 
And  upward  rapture  of  the  wing ; 
Their  time  is  gone,  and  with  it  they. 
And  am  I  wooing  Youth  to  stay 
In  these  dry  days,  that  still  would  be 
Not  fair  to  me,  not  fair  to  me  ? 


A  WOMAN'S  BIRTHDAY. 

If  Time  has  stained  with  gold  the  hair, 
Should  he  not  gather  grayness  there? 
Whatever  gifts  he  chose  to  make, 
If  he  has  given,  shall  he  not  take  ? 
His  hollow  hand  has  room  for  all 
The  beauty  of  the  world  to  fall 
Therein.     I  give  my  little  part 
With  aching  heart,  with  aching  heart. 


H 


HIS  SHARE  AND  MINE. 

E  went  from  me  so  softly  and  so  soon. 
His  sweet  hands  rest  at  morning  and  at  noon  ; 


The  only  task  God  gave  them  was  to  hold 

A  few  faint  rose-buds — and  be  white  and  cold. 

His  share  of  flowers  he  took  with  him  away  ; 
No  more  will  blossom  here  so  fair  as  they. 

His  share  of  thorns  he  left— and  if  they  tear 

My  hands  instead  of  his,  I  do  not  care. 

(i73) 


174  HIS    SHARE    AND    MINE. 

His  sweet  eyes  were  so  clear  and  lovely,  but 
To  look  into  the  world's  wild  light  and  shut : 

Down  in  the  dust  they  have  their  share  of  sleep  ; 
Their  share  of  tears  is  left  for  me  to  weep. 

His  sweet  mouth  had  its  share  of  kisses — Ob  ! 
What  love,  what  anguish,  will  he  ever  know? 

Its  share  of  thirst  and  murmuring  and  moan 
And  cries  unsatisfied  shall  be  my  own. 

He  had  his  share  of  Summer.     Bird  and  dew 
Were  here  with  him — with  him  they  vanished  too 


HIS    SHARE    AND    MINE. 


175 


His  share  of  dying  leaves  and  rains  and  frost 
I  take,  with  every  dreary  thing  he  lost. 

The  phantom  of  the  cloud  he  did  not  see 
Forevermore  shall  overshadow  me. 

He,  in  return,  with  small,  still,  snowy  feet 
Touched  the  Dim  Path  and  made  its  Twilight  sweet. 


LIFE  OR  LOVE. 

world  so  beautiful,  could  we  hide 
Somewhere  in  your  flowers  from  death !  " 
A  wandering  voice  in  a  palace  sighed, 
Where  the  East-rose  draws  her  breath. 


QH, 


"  Ah,  jewels  have  passed  through  yon  fires  of  mine, 

Worth  Persia  ten  times  told  ; 
And  the  essence  that  makes  our  dust  divine 

Is  here  in  this  cup  of  gold :" 
(176) 


LIFE    OR    LOVE.  1 77 

And  the  Master  knelt  with  a  beard  that  rushed 

To  his  feet  like  a  storm  of  snow. 
But  Youth  in  his  bosom  yearned  and  flushed, 

And  Youth  in  his  voice  spake  low. 

Yet  the  queen  lay  dark  on  the  gorgeous  floor, 

With  her  eyes  hid  in  her  hair. 

'  Should  she  lift  her  face  from  the  dust  any  more," 
They  moaned,  "  it  will  not  be  fair  : 

14  All  night,  with  the  moon,  she  watches  and  weeps  ; 

No  song  in  her  ear  is  sweet. 
All  day,  like  the  dead  king's  shadow,  she  keeps 
Her  place  at  the  dead  king's  feet." 


178  LIFE    OR   LOVE. 

"  Your  beauty  is  worth  all  other  things 

The  insolent  gods  have  seen.' 
It  should  not  fade — for  a  thousand  kings. 
You  shall  be  forever  the  queen." 

And  closer  the  Master  held  the  charm  : 
"  It  is  Life,  O  queen,  that  I  bring." 

She  reached  the  cup  with  a  wandering  arm 
"  Is  it  Life— for  my  lord,  the  king  ?  " 

"  Nay,  the  king  will  not  drink  wine  to-day. 

There  is  one  drop  here — for  you. 
Oh,  listen,  and  keep  your  beauty,  I  pray, 
While  the  sweet  world  keeps  the  dew. 


LIFE    OR    LOVE. 

"For  you  new  lovers  shall  always  rise  ;" 

And  the  lords  and  the  princes  near, 
With  the  sunrise-light  in  their  Persian  eyes, 
Stood,  jeweled  and  still,  to  hear. 

"  Oh,  what  were  Life  to  the  lonely — what  ? 

It  is  Love  I  would  have  you  bring, 
And  Love  in  this  widowed  world  is  not. 
Let  me  go  to  my  lord,  the  king." 


THE  DEAD  BOOK. 

A    H  \  from  the  yellow  pages  Time  has  torn 

The  wonder-pictures  seen  by  clearer  eyes, 
And  from  the  withered  words  the  soul  is  worn. 
Kiss  the  dead  Book,  and  leave  it  where  it  lies. 


Kiss  the  dead  Book,  and  leave  it  in  its  place — 
Youth's  breathless  bloom  and  dusty  dreams  among. 

I  read,  where  shining  poems  show  no  grace, 
This  dreary  line,  "  You  are  no  longer  young." 


(180) 


7  773  3OT 


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